02-21-2022, 04:03 PM
Nothing about Kestrell should spark recognition in anyone. He was a member of the underbelly society in Beqanna - a rank he lovingly enjoyed because it was obscure and at the utmost fringes of society. The underbelly horses of Beqanna weren’t known like the royals or greater beings. Those were powerful horses who controlled great areas of territory where they practiced their larger acts of magic.
Kestrell was nothing like the whispered names of his ancestors. He didn’t even look like them, and for good reason he never questioned why. He’d been content to be a part of the less-talented mass of characters watching the world spin on, eking out their smaller existences in a world shaped by dark or light Gods, and his life had been a good one because of it.
He only supposed that Ciri might’ve been one of his kind. The type to settle in one place and get to know the trails, so to speak, before moving on to something better. Obviously, he was wrong.
Starlit and fierce, she spat back at Kestrell. His expression dropped in disappointment.
There was just enough light for him to see her tensing like she was uncertain (or maybe even offended?) at his advances. That was when a younger, fresher version of himself might’ve thrown his head and backed off, intimidated. It would’ve been the smarter thing to do in any case. But Kestrell was seasoned enough by now to understand weakness when he saw it, as plainly as Ciri had picked up on his bum knee.
She hadn’t been very subtle in her reaction, either; Kestrell watched her use some sort of magic to cover her skin with beams of light, and did nothing to stop or interfere because he was nosy. Is she healing? He wondered, his eyes dancing curiously over the silver-marks covering her pelt like spiderwebs.
One panther-lunge. That was her attack. Maybe one good bite or kick before recoiling as a defensive measure, while he was stuck with three working legs and a thick skull.
He’d take those chances.
Determined now, Kestrell stubbornly favored his bad limb and stared Ciri down in the dark. The Meadow was nearly quiet, made even more so by the lapse in conversation between the two pegasi. When the mare spoke again, Kestrell couldn’t help but cough up a brutish laugh.
“Came in too steep.” He shot her an insufferable, charming smile. “Flying certainly won’t be fun for a day or two.”
Kestrell was nothing like the whispered names of his ancestors. He didn’t even look like them, and for good reason he never questioned why. He’d been content to be a part of the less-talented mass of characters watching the world spin on, eking out their smaller existences in a world shaped by dark or light Gods, and his life had been a good one because of it.
He only supposed that Ciri might’ve been one of his kind. The type to settle in one place and get to know the trails, so to speak, before moving on to something better. Obviously, he was wrong.
Starlit and fierce, she spat back at Kestrell. His expression dropped in disappointment.
There was just enough light for him to see her tensing like she was uncertain (or maybe even offended?) at his advances. That was when a younger, fresher version of himself might’ve thrown his head and backed off, intimidated. It would’ve been the smarter thing to do in any case. But Kestrell was seasoned enough by now to understand weakness when he saw it, as plainly as Ciri had picked up on his bum knee.
She hadn’t been very subtle in her reaction, either; Kestrell watched her use some sort of magic to cover her skin with beams of light, and did nothing to stop or interfere because he was nosy. Is she healing? He wondered, his eyes dancing curiously over the silver-marks covering her pelt like spiderwebs.
One panther-lunge. That was her attack. Maybe one good bite or kick before recoiling as a defensive measure, while he was stuck with three working legs and a thick skull.
He’d take those chances.
Determined now, Kestrell stubbornly favored his bad limb and stared Ciri down in the dark. The Meadow was nearly quiet, made even more so by the lapse in conversation between the two pegasi. When the mare spoke again, Kestrell couldn’t help but cough up a brutish laugh.
“Came in too steep.” He shot her an insufferable, charming smile. “Flying certainly won’t be fun for a day or two.”
Image ©Karl Martens
@Ciri