How lucky that it is Eyre whose path parallels the other mare's and not her ever-ravenous aunt. How lucky that the unfortunate doe's flesh still warms her belly when her shadowed gaze falls upon the strange mare, tracing the smooth lines of her haunch with habitual if not actual hunger. The bone-thin creature pauses, silent, her angular lines blending into the thick branches that stand between them, and she considers how long such a meal might last the pair of them. In truth, not long at all
Illunis cannot be so far that she is out of earshot. Yet, Eyre, looking briefly back, turns her narrow head forward again and holds her peace, tonguing a bit of sinew stuck between her teeth. For now, it is her curiousity rather than her hunger that wells up in her breast like a golden bubble desperate to be burst.
Her black horn, still glistening with evidence of her mercy, parts the hawthorn switches to allow her passage between them. Her movements are faintly stilted, and when she speaks, her accent is strange, like one unused to the feel of words on her tongue.
"You are well fed," is her greeting. It is the best she knows how to do. "I think, if we hunted you, you would run for several days before we ate."
She smiles, baring sharpened teeth of obsidian in a black and bloody mouth. And when the other mare does not respond immediately to her friendly greeting, Eyre steps closer, brandishing her horn.
"Do not worry, I would kill you before my aunt ate very much of you."
Illunis cannot be so far that she is out of earshot. Yet, Eyre, looking briefly back, turns her narrow head forward again and holds her peace, tonguing a bit of sinew stuck between her teeth. For now, it is her curiousity rather than her hunger that wells up in her breast like a golden bubble desperate to be burst.
Her black horn, still glistening with evidence of her mercy, parts the hawthorn switches to allow her passage between them. Her movements are faintly stilted, and when she speaks, her accent is strange, like one unused to the feel of words on her tongue.
"You are well fed," is her greeting. It is the best she knows how to do. "I think, if we hunted you, you would run for several days before we ate."
She smiles, baring sharpened teeth of obsidian in a black and bloody mouth. And when the other mare does not respond immediately to her friendly greeting, Eyre steps closer, brandishing her horn.
"Do not worry, I would kill you before my aunt ate very much of you."
Eyre
run, run, run, little lamb
@Lourde