02-22-2017, 08:05 PM
Boy.
It rankles him; the word more than the tone.
(He is a boy - still a colt, and barely weaned off his mother’s tit but it eats at him, to be called such by this goat-brother that he recognizes but is too slow [maybe stupid?] to lift his head and recognize that same goat-ness in himself.)
Feast cants his hornless (hornless, light, but there is a phantom heaviness that tickles his brow every so often like an itch that has gone too long without being scratched and starts to subside but still exists) head to the side, as he regards the other. His regard is flat, hard, like the stallion’s before him and more so, because he is being shooed away as if he is nothing more than a pest (he is! He just fails to recognize this) but that does not rankle him half as much as being called a boy does, as if he is some common whelp like the all the rest that decorate the landscape (pretty fat fleshy yard ornaments, he thinks).
Yet, he stays.
Tempts fate (tempts Fear, but like his mother, he is unafraid).
“I think not,” he drawls lazily, mirroring the tail twitch even if his tail is still but a stub of short hair. He is entirely brash and equally stupid, in the way that colts can be - so fearless, so free. What could possibly go wrong? How could one son of the goat-god possibly fear another? Feast though, he looks around then back at the other as if taking his measure before looking down at his own cloven goat-feet. “There is room enough for both of us here, despite how ridiculous you look sniffing at the earth like a dog.” He scoffs, unafraid of a possibly rabid mutt let alone some dirt-breathing almost-stallion.
Still, he is bold and sly and slinks ever closer.
“What are you hunting?” he asks, recognizing the stance of a hunter despite his initial thoughts (doggish, dumb).
Predator, he thinks, curious as to who is the intended prey.
(Not him, but probably some other.)
(Stupid colt.)
It rankles him; the word more than the tone.
(He is a boy - still a colt, and barely weaned off his mother’s tit but it eats at him, to be called such by this goat-brother that he recognizes but is too slow [maybe stupid?] to lift his head and recognize that same goat-ness in himself.)
Feast cants his hornless (hornless, light, but there is a phantom heaviness that tickles his brow every so often like an itch that has gone too long without being scratched and starts to subside but still exists) head to the side, as he regards the other. His regard is flat, hard, like the stallion’s before him and more so, because he is being shooed away as if he is nothing more than a pest (he is! He just fails to recognize this) but that does not rankle him half as much as being called a boy does, as if he is some common whelp like the all the rest that decorate the landscape (pretty fat fleshy yard ornaments, he thinks).
Yet, he stays.
Tempts fate (tempts Fear, but like his mother, he is unafraid).
“I think not,” he drawls lazily, mirroring the tail twitch even if his tail is still but a stub of short hair. He is entirely brash and equally stupid, in the way that colts can be - so fearless, so free. What could possibly go wrong? How could one son of the goat-god possibly fear another? Feast though, he looks around then back at the other as if taking his measure before looking down at his own cloven goat-feet. “There is room enough for both of us here, despite how ridiculous you look sniffing at the earth like a dog.” He scoffs, unafraid of a possibly rabid mutt let alone some dirt-breathing almost-stallion.
Still, he is bold and sly and slinks ever closer.
“What are you hunting?” he asks, recognizing the stance of a hunter despite his initial thoughts (doggish, dumb).
Predator, he thinks, curious as to who is the intended prey.
(Not him, but probably some other.)
(Stupid colt.)
ooc: I don't know what this is but it is long overdue and I'm still trying to figure him out. :/