12-02-2020, 01:55 PM
Nerine remains quiet, except for the way her own voice echoes against its stone when she drifts high above it. She does not mind the silence, for a time, she does not mind that the handful of residents prefer to hide away from her. Perhaps they do not like her, but more likely (because who could not like her?) it is simply that they are too set in their own solitary ways. Popinjay is not a solitary animal, however, though she would never admit to anything like loneliness. Loneliness is too much like being bored. No, she simply prefers to have an audience; or to be an audience.
Not everybody hid themselves away - at least, not everybody hid themselves away from her successfully, the dark brown and gold pegasus boy was hostile and she had laughed at the way he growled and scowled, and then she singed his tail for him, though you can hardly tell - it was already short and colored like tarnished silver. Wherewolf, she had decided, was going to be fun.
The Rook lands in an enormous rustle of feathers, drinking deep the summer smell of heather and fir trees. The trees near the southern edge have been burned, but the northern stand of forest remains and it reminds her of Taiga. A small Taiga, and she likes to go there as a treat, to shed her wings and dance through the trees that bristle like angry cats. The scent of them fills her nostrils, it clings to her skin, wintry even in the height of Nerine's brief summer, it even flavors her breath as she chews at the budding chartreuse cones. Carefree, she curls her legs beneath her and naps in a bed of pine straw and the stab of the needles at her lips and her belly are like hedgehog spines, like electricity, buzzing sharp and bright in the late dusk of summer. If she drowses in her little forest, it is not because she is unaware, for she hears the footsteps that thud against the rocky soil, and she feels the vibration of them coursing through the earth where her sable nose is firmly pressed. Dark eyes gleam in the fading light, watching, but she does not try to move or speak before they reach her.
Not everybody hid themselves away - at least, not everybody hid themselves away from her successfully, the dark brown and gold pegasus boy was hostile and she had laughed at the way he growled and scowled, and then she singed his tail for him, though you can hardly tell - it was already short and colored like tarnished silver. Wherewolf, she had decided, was going to be fun.
The Rook lands in an enormous rustle of feathers, drinking deep the summer smell of heather and fir trees. The trees near the southern edge have been burned, but the northern stand of forest remains and it reminds her of Taiga. A small Taiga, and she likes to go there as a treat, to shed her wings and dance through the trees that bristle like angry cats. The scent of them fills her nostrils, it clings to her skin, wintry even in the height of Nerine's brief summer, it even flavors her breath as she chews at the budding chartreuse cones. Carefree, she curls her legs beneath her and naps in a bed of pine straw and the stab of the needles at her lips and her belly are like hedgehog spines, like electricity, buzzing sharp and bright in the late dusk of summer. If she drowses in her little forest, it is not because she is unaware, for she hears the footsteps that thud against the rocky soil, and she feels the vibration of them coursing through the earth where her sable nose is firmly pressed. Dark eyes gleam in the fading light, watching, but she does not try to move or speak before they reach her.
