09-01-2021, 11:46 AM
One-eyed, he takes her in, and the growl in his chest only elicits an answering purr in her own. She would not like to lose an eye, but even with just one, her sight would still be better than most, and that is a comfort. Still, to be blind to an entire half of the world would be an irritating and obvious weakness. She imagines he is hyper-aware of his blind side, and that he is probably exhausted by it, travelling the monster-filled woodland, knowing himself at such a disadvantage. No wonder the fanged thing under his skin is so on edge at the sight of her.
It should be. She is every inch a predator, and perhaps a match even for the bear, but today she is not looking for a brawl, resting her cheek on her paws and fixing him with that pointed raptorial gaze. The seasons do not come to Sylva and perhaps as the evening deepens further and the coolness settles in her bones again she will return to her hunting, but now, in this golden, glittering breath of time before night swallows them, she is too full of the sun, indifferent, indolent, and waiting for something more before committing to coming down from her Cheshire perch.
"The others?" The purring plucks softly at her husky voice, "Yes, some will want you to know that they are playing with you. They are crueler than I am."
The ragged wisps of her cropped tail flick idly, punctuating the thought. She has not quite decided what to do about this man who wants to control Sylva. He is not the sort that she is likely to respect, but Manikin is an accomplished liar, and when she cannot lie, she can change their minds enough that it does not matter, so she decides to take her time. Not everything will come to her as quickly and as easily as did her brother, she needs to remember that. Avocet's desire for love and his surety that he deserved it had set him up to fall a long time before Carnage had granted her those memory-twisting powers.
She lets a playful paw drop from the branch and bats careless, clawless, at his golden ears where they hide in the tumult of his pale mane, and with it, a sense of peace fills their sylvan copse as crickets begin to tune their wings and fireflies flicker their first light into the shadows. Her newest magic settles on him gently, tentatively, a single hook for his beating heart (and she has no idea how lucky she is that his mate so recently wished away the glass that was there before!) Perhaps, she thinks, grinning that strange beak-edged grin at his justifiable wariness, you will learn to think more kindly of me than you do now.
"What shall I call you? The Paladin?" It is dark now even on her branch, and she sits up with a fluid stretch, eyeing the meadow below for a landing, "Yes, I like that. My Paladin. And you must call me your Hippogryph."
It should be. She is every inch a predator, and perhaps a match even for the bear, but today she is not looking for a brawl, resting her cheek on her paws and fixing him with that pointed raptorial gaze. The seasons do not come to Sylva and perhaps as the evening deepens further and the coolness settles in her bones again she will return to her hunting, but now, in this golden, glittering breath of time before night swallows them, she is too full of the sun, indifferent, indolent, and waiting for something more before committing to coming down from her Cheshire perch.
"The others?" The purring plucks softly at her husky voice, "Yes, some will want you to know that they are playing with you. They are crueler than I am."
The ragged wisps of her cropped tail flick idly, punctuating the thought. She has not quite decided what to do about this man who wants to control Sylva. He is not the sort that she is likely to respect, but Manikin is an accomplished liar, and when she cannot lie, she can change their minds enough that it does not matter, so she decides to take her time. Not everything will come to her as quickly and as easily as did her brother, she needs to remember that. Avocet's desire for love and his surety that he deserved it had set him up to fall a long time before Carnage had granted her those memory-twisting powers.
She lets a playful paw drop from the branch and bats careless, clawless, at his golden ears where they hide in the tumult of his pale mane, and with it, a sense of peace fills their sylvan copse as crickets begin to tune their wings and fireflies flicker their first light into the shadows. Her newest magic settles on him gently, tentatively, a single hook for his beating heart (and she has no idea how lucky she is that his mate so recently wished away the glass that was there before!) Perhaps, she thinks, grinning that strange beak-edged grin at his justifiable wariness, you will learn to think more kindly of me than you do now.
"What shall I call you? The Paladin?" It is dark now even on her branch, and she sits up with a fluid stretch, eyeing the meadow below for a landing, "Yes, I like that. My Paladin. And you must call me your Hippogryph."
@Ledger