03-03-2022, 03:18 PM
Intriguing company, a clear night, comfortable weather -
Kestrell’s thoughts couldn’t be farther from Ciri’s. He was too busy studying her manners; she seemed nervous, fidgety. When she glared at him, (a little quirk Kestrell actually liked about her) the pitch-black mare’s true thoughts were obscured by darkness. He couldn’t read her eyes, or necessarily capture the intensity in them, but Kestrell had sense enough to read body language. After what seemed like a moment or two of hesitation on her part, Ciri moved toward him and the insufferable grin vanished.
Progress, he thought.
The two were just close enough for comfort. Kestrell could observe her thoroughly from his vantage point, and he didn’t spare an embarrassed or cautious moment before his eyes were drawn to the little spots of glowing light covering Ciri’s otherwise tattered skin. Even her wings were drenched in starlight, showing like little galactic pinpoints in an otherwise velvet sea of black feathers. It fascinated him, more than the slight intrigue she betrayed when at last the stubborn mare questioned Kestrell’s ability to heal himself.
“Technically, we can all heal ourselves.” He corrected her fearlessly. “Some of us are just faster at it than others.”
He couldn’t help himself. Her seriousness begged for a more spirited counterweight, and Kestrell was always in the mood for pushing his luck.
“Your mud remedy -” he started up again before she could bite back, “- did that come from personal experience, or was it a kind recommendation from some other stranger?”
The spotted stallion thought of Pinko, Tinkaara and the rest; his vagabond group of buddies disbanded last season, but it was nearly time for them to regroup again in preparation for the winter months.
“I do know a healer, of sorts, if you need one.” Kestrell offered, just sly enough that his own interest in her habits and solitary existence might be noticed.
Kestrell’s thoughts couldn’t be farther from Ciri’s. He was too busy studying her manners; she seemed nervous, fidgety. When she glared at him, (a little quirk Kestrell actually liked about her) the pitch-black mare’s true thoughts were obscured by darkness. He couldn’t read her eyes, or necessarily capture the intensity in them, but Kestrell had sense enough to read body language. After what seemed like a moment or two of hesitation on her part, Ciri moved toward him and the insufferable grin vanished.
Progress, he thought.
The two were just close enough for comfort. Kestrell could observe her thoroughly from his vantage point, and he didn’t spare an embarrassed or cautious moment before his eyes were drawn to the little spots of glowing light covering Ciri’s otherwise tattered skin. Even her wings were drenched in starlight, showing like little galactic pinpoints in an otherwise velvet sea of black feathers. It fascinated him, more than the slight intrigue she betrayed when at last the stubborn mare questioned Kestrell’s ability to heal himself.
“Technically, we can all heal ourselves.” He corrected her fearlessly. “Some of us are just faster at it than others.”
He couldn’t help himself. Her seriousness begged for a more spirited counterweight, and Kestrell was always in the mood for pushing his luck.
“Your mud remedy -” he started up again before she could bite back, “- did that come from personal experience, or was it a kind recommendation from some other stranger?”
The spotted stallion thought of Pinko, Tinkaara and the rest; his vagabond group of buddies disbanded last season, but it was nearly time for them to regroup again in preparation for the winter months.
“I do know a healer, of sorts, if you need one.” Kestrell offered, just sly enough that his own interest in her habits and solitary existence might be noticed.
Image ©Karl Martens
@Ciri