11-01-2020, 07:35 AM
Starsonder, she says, a mouthful of a name with a meaning he does not understand. She’d rather bright, he supposes, like a star.
“You could choose your own name,” Quell suggests, “Like Scar or Dash or something else…cool.” The black colt is uncertain what sort of names a Tephran girl might find interesting or suitable, but he does agree that Sonder is a little heavy and Star perhaps too common with the frequency of the Beqanna God’s frequent presence. He has never questioned his own name, bestowed on him by his mother, though he thinks about it now. He ponders quietly, mouth twisting pensively.
Overhead, the rustling of the leaves in the autumn light catches his attention and Quell raises dark eyes to the canopy. The shaded undersides of the leaves are darker than the morning sky, holding tightly still to the warm autumn night.
Quell holds his dried wings a bit away from his body, allowing the fur and scales of his dark body to dry more quickly. His wings would hold the water against his sides and make him itchy after a few minutes, and he’d long ago learned the importance of drying off as soon as he’s out of the water.
“Where are you from, anyway?” Quell inquires. He’s sure the answer is Tephra given the sandbars she’d crossed. Or perhaps Tephra was just the beach she’d left the mainland from. It is not as though Quell is well-travelled, able to differentiate the scent of one ‘strange place’ from the next. He is only certain she is from neither Ischia nor Sylva. His dark eyes glitter and his expression is curious. “Why’s somebody not with you to, you know, watch out for you so you don’t get eaten?” He tries to phrase it as inoffensively as possible, and glances at her surreptitiously from beneath his black forelock to see if he’s been successful.
“You could choose your own name,” Quell suggests, “Like Scar or Dash or something else…cool.” The black colt is uncertain what sort of names a Tephran girl might find interesting or suitable, but he does agree that Sonder is a little heavy and Star perhaps too common with the frequency of the Beqanna God’s frequent presence. He has never questioned his own name, bestowed on him by his mother, though he thinks about it now. He ponders quietly, mouth twisting pensively.
Overhead, the rustling of the leaves in the autumn light catches his attention and Quell raises dark eyes to the canopy. The shaded undersides of the leaves are darker than the morning sky, holding tightly still to the warm autumn night.
Quell holds his dried wings a bit away from his body, allowing the fur and scales of his dark body to dry more quickly. His wings would hold the water against his sides and make him itchy after a few minutes, and he’d long ago learned the importance of drying off as soon as he’s out of the water.
“Where are you from, anyway?” Quell inquires. He’s sure the answer is Tephra given the sandbars she’d crossed. Or perhaps Tephra was just the beach she’d left the mainland from. It is not as though Quell is well-travelled, able to differentiate the scent of one ‘strange place’ from the next. He is only certain she is from neither Ischia nor Sylva. His dark eyes glitter and his expression is curious. “Why’s somebody not with you to, you know, watch out for you so you don’t get eaten?” He tries to phrase it as inoffensively as possible, and glances at her surreptitiously from beneath his black forelock to see if he’s been successful.