07-08-2017, 07:35 PM
Her voice is silk twisting around his ears, smooth tendrils that ebb away his frustration, even for but a moment. Castile’s mismatched eyes blink as he stares at the snow-covered ground first before raising them to look at her. While he is a mere two years of age, she is an adult. Slowly, he drinks in the sight of her. From her curious face down her feathered body, to her wings, then finally her tail. ”Hullo,” he mutters fairly awkwardly as though caught in something he should not have been doing. Most often his company is with other boys such as Amet and Ivar. Only a handful of times has he been around a female with the exclusion of his young sister and mother.
Her searching gaze distracts him briefly until he reels back in his memory to answer her. ”Do you know how to shift?” There is no shame in admitting his faults to her. While it’s still traumatizing to be so futile in front of her, at least she offers assistance rather than laugh and tease. It softens the blow to his pride, perhaps, but his heart still patters anxiously against his ribcage.
”Father never got around to teaching me. It sort of happens on its own,” and while Castile sheepishly confesses this to her, his mane recedes and is replaced by spines tracing down his neck toward his withers. Of course, he takes no notice of this. The change, albeit unwarranted, is graceful in its transition. Obsidian scales climb up his legs, but then Castile takes a settling breath and everything reverts to as it was.
The snow sends a chill along his back, but upon lifting his eyes again, the frigidity almost melts away. ”I’m Castile.”
Her searching gaze distracts him briefly until he reels back in his memory to answer her. ”Do you know how to shift?” There is no shame in admitting his faults to her. While it’s still traumatizing to be so futile in front of her, at least she offers assistance rather than laugh and tease. It softens the blow to his pride, perhaps, but his heart still patters anxiously against his ribcage.
”Father never got around to teaching me. It sort of happens on its own,” and while Castile sheepishly confesses this to her, his mane recedes and is replaced by spines tracing down his neck toward his withers. Of course, he takes no notice of this. The change, albeit unwarranted, is graceful in its transition. Obsidian scales climb up his legs, but then Castile takes a settling breath and everything reverts to as it was.
The snow sends a chill along his back, but upon lifting his eyes again, the frigidity almost melts away. ”I’m Castile.”