12-10-2018, 08:15 AM
Far overhead, a pair of eagles circle lazily, borne by updrafts that remain far beyond Pteron's reach. His little wings are spread wide in imitation, but the pale colt has no hope of flight. Takeoff from this flat lands requires muscle strength he does not yet have. It is not for lack of trying (most days he spends a good chunk of time just flap, flap, flapping) but there is a distinct ache in his chest whenever he watches the birds, or is left behind when his parents take flight.
They've done so today, Daddy to Loess and Momma to circle the borders. Pteron is alone, and when he is alone he watches the birds.
He might have done so for hours, his blue-green eyes fixed on the sky. The clouds, pale like his wings, turn in a myriad of shapes, and the boy has nearly drifted off to sleep when he hears something nearby.
It is not a noise he recognizes and Momma isn't here to remind him of caution, so he blinks the sunspots from his eyes and trots toward the noise, tucking his wings to his thin dun sides as he goes.
There is something in the thistle - a wombat maybe? - and Pteron whuffles excitedly. The sounds it makes are not the usual grunting snuffling chattering, but that does not perturb the young boy. He comes nearer, to where the thing is stuck. He is careful with the thistle, biting at it with his milk teeth in an effort to free the furry little thing.
He can take it home, he thinks. Surely Daddy will let it sleep with him in their hollow, will support Pteron in the persuasion of Momma, who has never wanted her son to have a pet. But a wombat is a good pet, he thinks, small and cuddly and soft.
@[Aire]
They've done so today, Daddy to Loess and Momma to circle the borders. Pteron is alone, and when he is alone he watches the birds.
He might have done so for hours, his blue-green eyes fixed on the sky. The clouds, pale like his wings, turn in a myriad of shapes, and the boy has nearly drifted off to sleep when he hears something nearby.
It is not a noise he recognizes and Momma isn't here to remind him of caution, so he blinks the sunspots from his eyes and trots toward the noise, tucking his wings to his thin dun sides as he goes.
There is something in the thistle - a wombat maybe? - and Pteron whuffles excitedly. The sounds it makes are not the usual grunting snuffling chattering, but that does not perturb the young boy. He comes nearer, to where the thing is stuck. He is careful with the thistle, biting at it with his milk teeth in an effort to free the furry little thing.
He can take it home, he thinks. Surely Daddy will let it sleep with him in their hollow, will support Pteron in the persuasion of Momma, who has never wanted her son to have a pet. But a wombat is a good pet, he thinks, small and cuddly and soft.
@[Aire]