03-19-2023, 04:43 PM
Animus watches the Sprite with a pensive glare. His ears flick back and forth rapidly, the only indication that the scenes before him affect his emotions. He sees so much of his father in the violence, so much of the Pangea he no longer knows.
Why would I care for these children? he thinks to himself between flashes of the foals playing. He sees himself in their elation like cuts of videotape: a boy in the dust of Pangea like the boy in the sand of the ocean, some random filly where the Stratosian girl plays. It’s a different world entirely, but Animus feels the vaguely familiar racing pulse of his childhood—feels his scales rustle and stand on end, feels a hiss press from his tightly pressed fangs.
A flick of Animus’ tail indicates a brief glimpse of alarm at the appearance of the giant rocs. He blinks slowly, eyelids clicking together for one quick second. He expects to see the bird pluck one of them from their joy, the source of the two societies’ strife—typical, emotional war. What he doesn’t expect, is the crash of rock atop the the colt, and the following two atop the filly. Animus’ whole body tenses, even the tip of his tail curved all the way toward his rump does not move an inch. Slowly, he turns his head to return his furious
gaze upon the Sprites. A sneer curls his lips.
“All this power and you can’t change it?” Animus hisses as the discovery of the mangled children plays out
on the beach. “All this power and you leave it to—” He’s cut off as he’s thrust into the midst of the chaos.
Animus stares from one desperate, grieving Baltian to one desperate, grieving Stratosian. His heart pounds with that age-old anxiety as all the animosity leaves his gaze. There’s several beats of silence as the strangers stare at him, several beats for him to realize they are looking at him for answers.
“The roc,” he stutters, “it—” more stumbling. He feels the failure of his childhood, the weight of his parents, the quiet solitude of finding his own understanding. All that quiet suffering boiling down to this one moment and all Animus can do is clamp his jaw tightly shut. He breaths in and out, in and out—
“It was an accident,” he whispers.
“But I don’t think you’ll believe me.”
Why would I care for these children? he thinks to himself between flashes of the foals playing. He sees himself in their elation like cuts of videotape: a boy in the dust of Pangea like the boy in the sand of the ocean, some random filly where the Stratosian girl plays. It’s a different world entirely, but Animus feels the vaguely familiar racing pulse of his childhood—feels his scales rustle and stand on end, feels a hiss press from his tightly pressed fangs.
A flick of Animus’ tail indicates a brief glimpse of alarm at the appearance of the giant rocs. He blinks slowly, eyelids clicking together for one quick second. He expects to see the bird pluck one of them from their joy, the source of the two societies’ strife—typical, emotional war. What he doesn’t expect, is the crash of rock atop the the colt, and the following two atop the filly. Animus’ whole body tenses, even the tip of his tail curved all the way toward his rump does not move an inch. Slowly, he turns his head to return his furious
gaze upon the Sprites. A sneer curls his lips.
“All this power and you can’t change it?” Animus hisses as the discovery of the mangled children plays out
on the beach. “All this power and you leave it to—” He’s cut off as he’s thrust into the midst of the chaos.
Animus stares from one desperate, grieving Baltian to one desperate, grieving Stratosian. His heart pounds with that age-old anxiety as all the animosity leaves his gaze. There’s several beats of silence as the strangers stare at him, several beats for him to realize they are looking at him for answers.
“The roc,” he stutters, “it—” more stumbling. He feels the failure of his childhood, the weight of his parents, the quiet solitude of finding his own understanding. All that quiet suffering boiling down to this one moment and all Animus can do is clamp his jaw tightly shut. He breaths in and out, in and out—
“It was an accident,” he whispers.
“But I don’t think you’ll believe me.”