02-25-2019, 10:37 PM
The young man’s reaction to Reia is much the same as it had been to her mother: fear.
It comes from a part of himself that Pteron cannot control, that subconscious and ever-present wariness of a prey animal. It is not intense, buffered by consciousness and his adolescent confidence, but it sends a flare of adrenaline to burn through his veins not unlike the flames that he almost sees behind Reia’s perfect silver eyes. The hair along his spine all but stands on end, and his olive gaze darts toward and away from the sharp points of her teeth as she greets him.
Though he had recently tousled with a lioness and led a wild canine to the water, something about the winged girl feels far more dangerous than either of the predators. It is unsettling , but the pensive colt cannot dwell on it overlong. She’s asking who he is now, and Pteron is not rude enough to make her wait (nor take flight to safety).
“I’m Pteron,” he tells her. And then, putting together what he knows and what he sees, adds: “You must be Reia.”
Much as it had when he had realized the dragon he had met was Castile, Pteron’s guard immediately drops. The remnants of adrenaline still linger in his system – rapid heartbeat, tense muscle and wide eyes – but his breathing slows its sudden uptick as he places this thrilling creature into his schema of relationships. Family, like her father. Not like her mother though, who Pteron might have taken steps to avoid while on patrol. In time the tigress will surely become entrenched in his imagining of Loess, but for now the young stallion would rather steer clear.
He is able to focus less on Reia’s pointed canines and reptilian scales, and more on the blue fire of her mane and the shimmer of her flaxen coat. She is his age, Pteron sees, remembering the words of his uncle. He also recalls Sochi’s hesitation in the word friend. That is unconcerning, he decides; he has always been very good at making friends. He’s befriended everyone he knows, really, and sees no reason why this should not be much the same.
Skipping the formality of a greeting a way common to the young, Pteron asks: “Do you know where the warm springs are? I found a bunch of cold ones and some really hot ones, but I want to swim in a warm one. I think it’s too cold for the ocean.” He’s hopeful that his description of what he’s already found will be helpful, and perhaps also impress her that he’s already found these springs while still being a relative newcomer.
@[Reia]
It comes from a part of himself that Pteron cannot control, that subconscious and ever-present wariness of a prey animal. It is not intense, buffered by consciousness and his adolescent confidence, but it sends a flare of adrenaline to burn through his veins not unlike the flames that he almost sees behind Reia’s perfect silver eyes. The hair along his spine all but stands on end, and his olive gaze darts toward and away from the sharp points of her teeth as she greets him.
Though he had recently tousled with a lioness and led a wild canine to the water, something about the winged girl feels far more dangerous than either of the predators. It is unsettling , but the pensive colt cannot dwell on it overlong. She’s asking who he is now, and Pteron is not rude enough to make her wait (nor take flight to safety).
“I’m Pteron,” he tells her. And then, putting together what he knows and what he sees, adds: “You must be Reia.”
Much as it had when he had realized the dragon he had met was Castile, Pteron’s guard immediately drops. The remnants of adrenaline still linger in his system – rapid heartbeat, tense muscle and wide eyes – but his breathing slows its sudden uptick as he places this thrilling creature into his schema of relationships. Family, like her father. Not like her mother though, who Pteron might have taken steps to avoid while on patrol. In time the tigress will surely become entrenched in his imagining of Loess, but for now the young stallion would rather steer clear.
He is able to focus less on Reia’s pointed canines and reptilian scales, and more on the blue fire of her mane and the shimmer of her flaxen coat. She is his age, Pteron sees, remembering the words of his uncle. He also recalls Sochi’s hesitation in the word friend. That is unconcerning, he decides; he has always been very good at making friends. He’s befriended everyone he knows, really, and sees no reason why this should not be much the same.
Skipping the formality of a greeting a way common to the young, Pteron asks: “Do you know where the warm springs are? I found a bunch of cold ones and some really hot ones, but I want to swim in a warm one. I think it’s too cold for the ocean.” He’s hopeful that his description of what he’s already found will be helpful, and perhaps also impress her that he’s already found these springs while still being a relative newcomer.
@[Reia]