09-10-2021, 12:04 PM
She thinks his wings are cool (or maybe just that the appearance of them is), and the feathers around his neck and chest fluff out a bit in pride. He’s still mostly focused on his offer to help though, and he flexes the long feathered limbs as she tells him that she could use his help.
Birdbrain - refusing to acknowledge the nickname - watches without a word as Malik takes to the sky. He makes no effort to guide the boy back to where he’d seen the wolf slink off into the woods, and instead returns to preening his fiery feathers.
The air feels cool and crisp beneath his feathers, and once in the air Malik shifts his eyes as well, and the peach iris now surrounds the sharp iris of a falcon. These eyes are made to search the trees and brush, yet as he swoops low over the meadows of the Playground he finds no sign of a wolf made of shadows.
“Having any luck?” He calls down to Maurtia, hoping that the maneless girl has had more luck finding her wayward companion than he has. And then, “Oh! Is that...?!”
And then he strikes, entirely a falcon, at what had - a moment ago - looked just like the tail of a shadow wolf. But it had only been the shadow of a half-broken limb, swaying in the breezes. His talons close on nothing and he lands, breathless but not seriously injured, on the forest floor near the red filly.
“That wasn’t DeeBee.” He adds unnecessarily, which does nothing to help with the embaressment as he rises and shifts back into a leaf-rattled black colt. In the distance, the griffon shakes its head in exasperation.
Birdbrain - refusing to acknowledge the nickname - watches without a word as Malik takes to the sky. He makes no effort to guide the boy back to where he’d seen the wolf slink off into the woods, and instead returns to preening his fiery feathers.
The air feels cool and crisp beneath his feathers, and once in the air Malik shifts his eyes as well, and the peach iris now surrounds the sharp iris of a falcon. These eyes are made to search the trees and brush, yet as he swoops low over the meadows of the Playground he finds no sign of a wolf made of shadows.
“Having any luck?” He calls down to Maurtia, hoping that the maneless girl has had more luck finding her wayward companion than he has. And then, “Oh! Is that...?!”
And then he strikes, entirely a falcon, at what had - a moment ago - looked just like the tail of a shadow wolf. But it had only been the shadow of a half-broken limb, swaying in the breezes. His talons close on nothing and he lands, breathless but not seriously injured, on the forest floor near the red filly.
“That wasn’t DeeBee.” He adds unnecessarily, which does nothing to help with the embaressment as he rises and shifts back into a leaf-rattled black colt. In the distance, the griffon shakes its head in exasperation.