02-11-2016, 03:41 AM
And I'll owe it all to you, oh. My little bird.
“I am not a baby,” she states with a curled lip and defensive eye. Her expression is cold, perhaps not as intimidating as she intended while she raises herself rather clumsily from the forest floor.
It isn’t that she is upset at this stranger, it is more about the fact this stranger has already taken on the caring parental role when really, Eberley wants the roll. It has been too long (ahem, never) since she got to make her own decisions. And here comes this… this oddly coloured female… from the most secluded part of the forest and suddenly Eberley is the coddled one?
No. No way.
“I am 180 days old for your information and I am quite the grown up,” it isn’t exactly convincing--her nose in the air was an honest try and her adult like voice more than a few notes off puberty--but truly, one should only laugh at her confident demeanor. Or kill her.
Whichever, truly.
If Eberley was slightly open minded, she would realize this kind stranger is speaking to her in a very respectful way, but unfortunately our little bird is a little short on socialization. Her voice has hardly been practiced and her manners barely taught. She knows please and thank you, no and yes, but nothing beyond what the fae teach in daily routine. Eberley is most certainly a work in progress, a project.
The kind of project you avoid until the end of the school year and only hand it in half done to obtain some sort of passing mark.
Her whole life, all 180 days, she had been given the shortest straw.
The mare extends her nose overtop of Eberley’s head and a puff of air lightens her fluffy forelock. It is the slightest bit of affection, so slight in fact our little Eb isn’t entirely sure what it means. It just sends her into an uncomfortable shy silence.
Something that rarely happens.
Staring at her makes Eberley feel envious. Whomever raised her must have been nice, because how she is treating a little child now can only be a reflection of her childhood. It is something that sends a spark trickling down her throat and leaving what I can describe as an explosion in her stomach. A lonely feeling.
The question, it pops into the air abruptly and for a second Eberley leaves it to hang like dry laundry on a clothesline. Wouldn’t it be heavenly to answer, “at home.”
But she cannot answer it like that, Eberley doesn’t have a mother.
So there it is, lingering in the air and creating an unfathomable tension in the air thicker than over churned butter. Her weight shifts from left to right, a sign of anxiety through body pacing.
“Not here,” she answers. It isn’t a lie, it isn’t a trick. Her mother simply is not here. She is somewhere else, doing something, maybe with someone else.
“Dacia is a weird name,” but deep down she likes the simplicity.
It isn’t that she is upset at this stranger, it is more about the fact this stranger has already taken on the caring parental role when really, Eberley wants the roll. It has been too long (ahem, never) since she got to make her own decisions. And here comes this… this oddly coloured female… from the most secluded part of the forest and suddenly Eberley is the coddled one?
No. No way.
“I am 180 days old for your information and I am quite the grown up,” it isn’t exactly convincing--her nose in the air was an honest try and her adult like voice more than a few notes off puberty--but truly, one should only laugh at her confident demeanor. Or kill her.
Whichever, truly.
If Eberley was slightly open minded, she would realize this kind stranger is speaking to her in a very respectful way, but unfortunately our little bird is a little short on socialization. Her voice has hardly been practiced and her manners barely taught. She knows please and thank you, no and yes, but nothing beyond what the fae teach in daily routine. Eberley is most certainly a work in progress, a project.
The kind of project you avoid until the end of the school year and only hand it in half done to obtain some sort of passing mark.
Her whole life, all 180 days, she had been given the shortest straw.
The mare extends her nose overtop of Eberley’s head and a puff of air lightens her fluffy forelock. It is the slightest bit of affection, so slight in fact our little Eb isn’t entirely sure what it means. It just sends her into an uncomfortable shy silence.
Something that rarely happens.
Staring at her makes Eberley feel envious. Whomever raised her must have been nice, because how she is treating a little child now can only be a reflection of her childhood. It is something that sends a spark trickling down her throat and leaving what I can describe as an explosion in her stomach. A lonely feeling.
The question, it pops into the air abruptly and for a second Eberley leaves it to hang like dry laundry on a clothesline. Wouldn’t it be heavenly to answer, “at home.”
But she cannot answer it like that, Eberley doesn’t have a mother.
So there it is, lingering in the air and creating an unfathomable tension in the air thicker than over churned butter. Her weight shifts from left to right, a sign of anxiety through body pacing.
“Not here,” she answers. It isn’t a lie, it isn’t a trick. Her mother simply is not here. She is somewhere else, doing something, maybe with someone else.
“Dacia is a weird name,” but deep down she likes the simplicity.