02-01-2018, 01:14 AM
"Trekori, The boy answers from his hiding place, loud enough so that they can hear. They have just met, the two - the filly swallowing down the spider, the colt swathed in a fear so pungent that his baby nose wrinkles in distaste. They are safe here. The boy should know that.
Stepping forward from the shadows, the watcher unveils his glowing horn, which had been hidden by the brush behind them. Against his too-skinny ribs, golden wings shuffle and clutch, the sensation reassuring and so like the motions of his father. Here, though, father is nowhere to be had, and perhaps for the better - the palomino colt does not seem fond of things that go bump in the night. And the vision of his undead father is one of those things.
Blinking his purple eyes, the splotched colt looks from filly to colt. They are all the same age, born from mothers not long ago. There is a mother here, not far off, he senses. But she won't interrupt. The boy steps closer to the two, the tip of his gnarled, root-like horn glowing obscenely.
"Who are you telling to go away?" He deadpans, eyes as lifeless as the colt he now finds himself staring at. They have the same hue, though one is plain and one is decked out, but there is often more than meets the eye. The muscles in his legs itch, but he refuses to fidget. The air - it's skinny around them.
"There's no one but us."
Stepping forward from the shadows, the watcher unveils his glowing horn, which had been hidden by the brush behind them. Against his too-skinny ribs, golden wings shuffle and clutch, the sensation reassuring and so like the motions of his father. Here, though, father is nowhere to be had, and perhaps for the better - the palomino colt does not seem fond of things that go bump in the night. And the vision of his undead father is one of those things.
Blinking his purple eyes, the splotched colt looks from filly to colt. They are all the same age, born from mothers not long ago. There is a mother here, not far off, he senses. But she won't interrupt. The boy steps closer to the two, the tip of his gnarled, root-like horn glowing obscenely.
"Who are you telling to go away?" He deadpans, eyes as lifeless as the colt he now finds himself staring at. They have the same hue, though one is plain and one is decked out, but there is often more than meets the eye. The muscles in his legs itch, but he refuses to fidget. The air - it's skinny around them.
"There's no one but us."
