03-16-2017, 07:29 PM
She cannot take her eyes off Hawke; seems to size her up and arrive at the conclusion that there is something altogether different about her, different from her usual cheery self back in their volcanic homeland. Fleece cannot seem to touch upon the difference, pinpoint its exactness because Hawke looks unchanged on the outside and maybe she’s making all this up in her strange little mind because rabbit-horses look for fright and flight where there is no need for either. Or it is the coyote-sharp sense that knows to sniff out magic, even the kind that makes them change shape, like their mother and father can do - a predator, and his favorite kind of prey, a hare-mother and her tender fleshy heart that he loves more than life itself. Fleece longs for a love like that, but she might be made for other things, she thinks, her eyes still on Hawke in her merriment.
Fleece does not see the way Hawke’s eyes light up;
She is busy looking at her sister, at the way Mauve seems at times, distracted.
(Like she is, by selves they can feel like an itch beneath the skin that just cannot be scratched.)
Hawke’s excitement is palpable; Fleece breathes it in the moment they all touch noses together, can feel it beginning to build in her at the mention of stories - she likes stories, they all do. The dreamy easy smile on Mauve’s lips is echoed on her own as they both stare at Hawke in anticipation. Fleece in particular, likes stories - their blood is rich and rife with it, every generation gifted with a storyteller and a trickster (like them, Mauve and Fleece, twinned and entwined together in womb and ever after). If she had a scut like Mauve’s, it’d be shaking furiously in eagerness but there is only her tail, half-dark and tangled around knots of wind and her hocks.
She is more inclined to believe Hawke than Mauve is, who incredulously asks if their friend has really done and seen many more things than any of them can even dream of. Fleece mimics the boundless energy in both of them, her limbs nimble and quick in the same strange skipping dance her sister does. “Tell us!” she implores, equally as breathless - equally eager to relive the things their friend has done in color sharper than a rainbow and it’s less vibrant twin.
(Roots and dirt, the safety of a warren dug deep into good earth with a thatch of thick grass overhead and maybe a flower or two to say hello to. Quick hops away and back again, for food and brief exploration. Curling into herself, furry and snug - prey, and further away, a sister’s predatory heart and hunger that can never keep them apart.)
Fleece smooths the dark strands of her sister’s hair down her neck and never takes her eyes off Hawke, feeling full and replete on happiness and that alone - as if it’s all she’s tasted or drank in the last hour and it could sustain her for a lifetime, but then, theirs’ has always been a life of happiness and ease.
Fleece does not see the way Hawke’s eyes light up;
She is busy looking at her sister, at the way Mauve seems at times, distracted.
(Like she is, by selves they can feel like an itch beneath the skin that just cannot be scratched.)
Hawke’s excitement is palpable; Fleece breathes it in the moment they all touch noses together, can feel it beginning to build in her at the mention of stories - she likes stories, they all do. The dreamy easy smile on Mauve’s lips is echoed on her own as they both stare at Hawke in anticipation. Fleece in particular, likes stories - their blood is rich and rife with it, every generation gifted with a storyteller and a trickster (like them, Mauve and Fleece, twinned and entwined together in womb and ever after). If she had a scut like Mauve’s, it’d be shaking furiously in eagerness but there is only her tail, half-dark and tangled around knots of wind and her hocks.
She is more inclined to believe Hawke than Mauve is, who incredulously asks if their friend has really done and seen many more things than any of them can even dream of. Fleece mimics the boundless energy in both of them, her limbs nimble and quick in the same strange skipping dance her sister does. “Tell us!” she implores, equally as breathless - equally eager to relive the things their friend has done in color sharper than a rainbow and it’s less vibrant twin.
(Roots and dirt, the safety of a warren dug deep into good earth with a thatch of thick grass overhead and maybe a flower or two to say hello to. Quick hops away and back again, for food and brief exploration. Curling into herself, furry and snug - prey, and further away, a sister’s predatory heart and hunger that can never keep them apart.)
Fleece smooths the dark strands of her sister’s hair down her neck and never takes her eyes off Hawke, feeling full and replete on happiness and that alone - as if it’s all she’s tasted or drank in the last hour and it could sustain her for a lifetime, but then, theirs’ has always been a life of happiness and ease.