"Hardly," comes her bitter reply. Creatrice does not look for others, they look for her. Or so she tells herself, having only her mother's sharp-edged infatuation to judge by.
"I thought it would be more interesting than this." The red girl scowls lightly at the rotting seaweed now thrust aside but still pungent, and as if it will make a difference, she plucks it from where it lies limp and disheveled and flicks it back into the sea. That's better. Let the Earless Ones have their garbage back.
"Unfortunately it's as dull as Pangea - just wetter."
A delicate foreleg hangs in the air, anxious, agitated, and covered in the thick salty mud of the place, then falls back down again with a wet slap. Creatrice dares a glance up again at her companion without knowing the mare's history. There is nothing on her coat but the fading scent of wildflowers to declare her former home, certainly nothing of the former kingdom of the East. Born too late to know Pangea's glory, that's Creatrice, and with no one to tell her the stories, even, to whisper of monsters and ghosts and dragons and power. Her family's habit of isolation breeds contempt in her heart for those sandstone ridges.
For a moment, her red gaze seeks to hold the ice-and-fire of the former Pampaian's; stubborn, her thin neck held stiff and proud, but then it veers away, back to the endless, rolling sea just past the palomino's shoulder, and her eyes narrow. There, where the seaweed dropped beneath the waves, a mass of shadows licks at the surface like smoke.
"What is that?"
"I thought it would be more interesting than this." The red girl scowls lightly at the rotting seaweed now thrust aside but still pungent, and as if it will make a difference, she plucks it from where it lies limp and disheveled and flicks it back into the sea. That's better. Let the Earless Ones have their garbage back.
"Unfortunately it's as dull as Pangea - just wetter."
A delicate foreleg hangs in the air, anxious, agitated, and covered in the thick salty mud of the place, then falls back down again with a wet slap. Creatrice dares a glance up again at her companion without knowing the mare's history. There is nothing on her coat but the fading scent of wildflowers to declare her former home, certainly nothing of the former kingdom of the East. Born too late to know Pangea's glory, that's Creatrice, and with no one to tell her the stories, even, to whisper of monsters and ghosts and dragons and power. Her family's habit of isolation breeds contempt in her heart for those sandstone ridges.
For a moment, her red gaze seeks to hold the ice-and-fire of the former Pampaian's; stubborn, her thin neck held stiff and proud, but then it veers away, back to the endless, rolling sea just past the palomino's shoulder, and her eyes narrow. There, where the seaweed dropped beneath the waves, a mass of shadows licks at the surface like smoke.
"What is that?"
- Creatrice
@Aela