04-08-2019, 09:49 PM
It’s clear that he’d startled the grey mare, and Pteron’s bright smile quickly turns to surprise, and then to a frown of apologetic concern. By he time he’s frowned she’s already briefly met his gaze only to look back at the ground. Pteron isn’t certain how to respond, but he Is saved from needing to by the arrival of a second dappled mare. This one had been greener the last time they’d met, he thinks, but it is not possible to forget Mary.
Pteron smiles, his concerned frown replaced by a well-mannered nod of his head as she greets them. She is as polite as he remembers (though his memories of the luminary are those of a child, blurred and faint), and while Pteron is respectful of her high position he is not quite deferential. She is not his queen, after all, and when they had last met his own rank had been higher than her own. There is a reason he is still a diplomat in training, it seems; he’s only a boy.
He’s astute enough to see that Mary’s arrival hasn’t eased the other mare in the same way it has himself, and he finds himself mirroring Terne, shifting back to create at least a little more space between them. It’s not a retreat, more of a resettling of his weight into a more relaxed posture. It’s something he’s seen his parents do when meeting someone new. He mimics it as best he can, attempting to emulate the softening of tension that he has seen on several occasions.
‘Most of a conversation isn’t spoken aloud’. He remembers that lesson well. Still, some of it has to be, and it would be rude to not reply to Mary, especially since she’s given an unnecessary apology. “You’re not interrupting at all. I’ve just landed and, I think, startled Terne here.” He glances at the mare, hoping to catch her eye when he says:“I’m sorry about that, by the way.”
Though Mary has already said his name, it was more of a greeting than an introduction, and he falls silent after adding: “I’m Pteron, of Loess.”
@[Terne]
@[Mary]
Pteron smiles, his concerned frown replaced by a well-mannered nod of his head as she greets them. She is as polite as he remembers (though his memories of the luminary are those of a child, blurred and faint), and while Pteron is respectful of her high position he is not quite deferential. She is not his queen, after all, and when they had last met his own rank had been higher than her own. There is a reason he is still a diplomat in training, it seems; he’s only a boy.
He’s astute enough to see that Mary’s arrival hasn’t eased the other mare in the same way it has himself, and he finds himself mirroring Terne, shifting back to create at least a little more space between them. It’s not a retreat, more of a resettling of his weight into a more relaxed posture. It’s something he’s seen his parents do when meeting someone new. He mimics it as best he can, attempting to emulate the softening of tension that he has seen on several occasions.
‘Most of a conversation isn’t spoken aloud’. He remembers that lesson well. Still, some of it has to be, and it would be rude to not reply to Mary, especially since she’s given an unnecessary apology. “You’re not interrupting at all. I’ve just landed and, I think, startled Terne here.” He glances at the mare, hoping to catch her eye when he says:“I’m sorry about that, by the way.”
Though Mary has already said his name, it was more of a greeting than an introduction, and he falls silent after adding: “I’m Pteron, of Loess.”
@[Terne]
@[Mary]