02-21-2016, 07:10 PM
He has taken to the tidal pools. The briny little habitats full of strange and colorful little monsters fascinate him. The majority of his time here has been spent lazing about at his mother’s feet, shading his eyes against the glare of hot sun with a pale wing and sinking into soft, green grass (that always seem to have a damp and leaves big wet spots on his side and hip when he gets up – on warm days it would catch a breeze and cool his dark skin but lately the breeze whizzing off the ocean has been a bit less friendly).
But when he does disentangle from mum to explore this new place, and if the tide is pulled back into the ocean to leave those little pieces of itself behind in the rocky holes. he always ends up gravitating to their edges.
Queer, seafoam green things that look as if they might be hairy, but he imagines them rather slimey. Pinkish-orange, rough things, like strange, dead men that have fallen too far and landed slumped over the slick, submerged rocks. Plants with weird shaped leaves and sometimes he finds hideous, big buggy things camped out under rocks coated in mussels.
But they are very hard to get to without incident.
He was made for this kind of stuff, with those flexible and dexterous feet. That is, he would be utterly perfect, absent the impish fiends.
He should be able to take rocks like a magnificent goat.
But he is not so lucky.
Falk is plagued by the pranks of unseen mischief-makers and neredowells.
The sooty black colt had managed early in the morning, by the skin of his teeth and with a little tettering, to make it down towards the slippery rocks, well below the stern and scary gaze of that hard, dark figure.
He circles slowly around the alien worlds, keeping back from the edge where the oily stones give way to nasty, grey water. His mother had warned him, and he listens to mother. She knows best. Now and then he shutters his eyes tight against a spray of cold, white water and so when he ambles away from the jaggy rocks and onto the giving sand, he is soaked and salty. When he sees the two children, he picks up speed, leaving his odd prints in the sand – his mother’s doting has made him a bold, rather confident boy, despite his inability to stay firmly on his hooves.
“Kidnapped? Scary...” he squeaks out, eyeing the other boy curiously, and coming to a slightly stumbling stop beside him. “My mum would never let anyo—” He is a second too late to see her skin sew itself up by the boy's volition, but the slick blood around the scrape still catches his eyes, “wow! What’s happened, there? You fell, right?” He grins crookedly, nods understandingly.
Then it isn’t just him?
“I’m Falk,” he knows he has seen the girl before (he blinks at her for a moment to long) but the boy (the first other boy he has ever met) is new!
FALK
Pollock x Syntyche
But when he does disentangle from mum to explore this new place, and if the tide is pulled back into the ocean to leave those little pieces of itself behind in the rocky holes. he always ends up gravitating to their edges.
Queer, seafoam green things that look as if they might be hairy, but he imagines them rather slimey. Pinkish-orange, rough things, like strange, dead men that have fallen too far and landed slumped over the slick, submerged rocks. Plants with weird shaped leaves and sometimes he finds hideous, big buggy things camped out under rocks coated in mussels.
But they are very hard to get to without incident.
He was made for this kind of stuff, with those flexible and dexterous feet. That is, he would be utterly perfect, absent the impish fiends.
He should be able to take rocks like a magnificent goat.
But he is not so lucky.
Falk is plagued by the pranks of unseen mischief-makers and neredowells.
The sooty black colt had managed early in the morning, by the skin of his teeth and with a little tettering, to make it down towards the slippery rocks, well below the stern and scary gaze of that hard, dark figure.
He circles slowly around the alien worlds, keeping back from the edge where the oily stones give way to nasty, grey water. His mother had warned him, and he listens to mother. She knows best. Now and then he shutters his eyes tight against a spray of cold, white water and so when he ambles away from the jaggy rocks and onto the giving sand, he is soaked and salty. When he sees the two children, he picks up speed, leaving his odd prints in the sand – his mother’s doting has made him a bold, rather confident boy, despite his inability to stay firmly on his hooves.
“Kidnapped? Scary...” he squeaks out, eyeing the other boy curiously, and coming to a slightly stumbling stop beside him. “My mum would never let anyo—” He is a second too late to see her skin sew itself up by the boy's volition, but the slick blood around the scrape still catches his eyes, “wow! What’s happened, there? You fell, right?” He grins crookedly, nods understandingly.
Then it isn’t just him?
“I’m Falk,” he knows he has seen the girl before (he blinks at her for a moment to long) but the boy (the first other boy he has ever met) is new!
Pollock x Syntyche
![[Image: HzeOUhk.png]](http://i.imgur.com/HzeOUhk.png)