01-10-2017, 11:25 PM
(Paralee, Paralee.) (Yes?)
(You’ve made him angry.)
(So?)
She ignores his snort of displeasure, debating in her head if he is simply grumpy or gloomy as both seem more than adequate to describe him as. Could be an unfair assumption on her part, but she’s trying to decide if he’s more foe than friend… supposes in the end, it doesn’t matter.
(It should always matter.)
(Why?)
(Oh Paralee!)
Grumpy, he’s definitely grumpy.
She harrumphs as he makes his statement about asking first. It’s blunt and quite true, but then Paralee just wouldn’t be Paralee if she went around asking permission for every little thing she did. Did she need to ask the air for permission to breath it? No, so in the same vein, she figured she could just reach out and touch the horns on his face. This idea of personal space and permission is rather new to her, a concept as vague as the horizon on a foggy night. (She almost laughs aloud, but that would be impolite.)
“Are you always as ugly sounding as your face is ugly looking with those horns on it?”
Oops! Paralee just couldn’t help herself. Sometimes, she just didn’t think before she spoke and it was a lot like poking a bear with a short stick - she just said whatever came to mind, pleasantries and manners aside, her thoughts always came tumbling out rather rudely. She could argue he is just as rude as she is and she’s just doing unto him as he is doing unto her, except she knows that argument isn’t all that valid - she was taught better than that, she thinks, barely remembers.
(You were, Paralee.)
(Maybe.)
“Well…” she drawls, stretching it out as long as she can until the l’s come rolling out of her mouth like a tide of desperate sound. “Maybe all the ones in my mane already dried up and died and those in my forelock are all that’s left.” It sounds flimsy even to her ears but she doesn’t like knowing he’ll best her in sarcasm and witty banter. But then he goes on about his horns, calling them rhino horns, as if she knew had an inkling of what a rhino was and her eyes are drawn right back to the way his head tilts casually to the side, emphasizing the slope of those two horns on his long mean face.
She straightens at his question, managing to somehow almost look prim and proper for a moment until she laughs; “Everyone has a name but Flower is not mine, not now and not ever. Besides,” she adds, sucking in a breath and almost biting her lip, “I’m not nearly half as nice as a flower is.” The little palomino eyes him and laughs again, “I’m Paralee, and what do I call you?” She couldn’t maintain the charade much longer and dissolved in more giggles and even a pretty little toss of her head that made the pale hairs and orange blossoms dance across her face until they settled back down into a curtain that she peered at him from behind, her expression suddenly coy, impish even.
(Oh Paralee…)
(Flowery and sweet, that’s me.)
(Hardly Paralee, hardly.)
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