A soft whine escapes his beak when the grey mare turns from the bull-colt and drops her gaze on him instead from across the meadow. He had only meant to scold the impetuous horned beast for stopping her as she crossed the meadow, creating a small well of shadows and magic that stained the grass underfoot and threatened the relative peace of the place. The colt had certainly had no intention of drawing her attention to himself, but that is precisely what has happened.
He hisses and she looks at him. She looks at him and he freezes. Breath catches in his throat, the tremor of the feathers across his chest growing stronger. He hears his hiss echoed by another voice but he dares not look away, meets icy eyes with his own flat amber and believes all his secrets laid bare. For once, he does not let his own magic flood away from him but keeps it leashed and tight to his sides but for that single tendril that tethers Hippogryph to his side.
The dark mare - eyes brighter than before, though bloodshot and bleary - lifts her head as though confused, scenting the air with flared nostrils. Does she know these smells? They are the scents that haunt her youth, but she cannot remember. She cannot remember many things. She remembers only the harsh voice of the bright, mocking star on her forehead that laughs and taunts her, and the odd shape of the Son, the sound of His cry and the pain of His beak when He tries to nurse. He does still try, though her milk dried up long ago, lost to the infection caused by the piercing tip of His beak on soft flesh.
The star has been quieter since the Son came. It had told her to kill Him and... she remembers trying. What has happened since? The child forgave her, and she worships Him.
His moan catches her ears and the stocky black mare charges to his side in a rage, yellow teeth bared, eyes wide and rolling in their sockets. Her long hair is a mess of matts and burrs and tangled grasses and she draws her heavy body between the colt and the shadow mare with a squeal and a stomp of cracked hooves.
He is ours, the flash of star through her forelock says. Never mind the thin white line of scars down her haunches from his bites. Never mind the dried blood on her shoulder from his claws.
Shielded from the dapple grey, Dreamscar chances a peek at the angular creature that draws into the creche of shadow. As all such unknown things do, it causes that familiar spike of fear, and if he had the soft face of The Others, he might grimace. And if he understood empathy, he might recognize the intimacy of its greeting as the same with which he greets the black blockade of his own mother. He stands taller, reaching up to tuck into the hook of his dam's neck, curling against her so tightly that one clawed foot grasps her hoof.
So protected, he grows bolder, answering her offer with a rude, guttural, buzz he has learned from the crows.
He hisses and she looks at him. She looks at him and he freezes. Breath catches in his throat, the tremor of the feathers across his chest growing stronger. He hears his hiss echoed by another voice but he dares not look away, meets icy eyes with his own flat amber and believes all his secrets laid bare. For once, he does not let his own magic flood away from him but keeps it leashed and tight to his sides but for that single tendril that tethers Hippogryph to his side.
The dark mare - eyes brighter than before, though bloodshot and bleary - lifts her head as though confused, scenting the air with flared nostrils. Does she know these smells? They are the scents that haunt her youth, but she cannot remember. She cannot remember many things. She remembers only the harsh voice of the bright, mocking star on her forehead that laughs and taunts her, and the odd shape of the Son, the sound of His cry and the pain of His beak when He tries to nurse. He does still try, though her milk dried up long ago, lost to the infection caused by the piercing tip of His beak on soft flesh.
The star has been quieter since the Son came. It had told her to kill Him and... she remembers trying. What has happened since? The child forgave her, and she worships Him.
His moan catches her ears and the stocky black mare charges to his side in a rage, yellow teeth bared, eyes wide and rolling in their sockets. Her long hair is a mess of matts and burrs and tangled grasses and she draws her heavy body between the colt and the shadow mare with a squeal and a stomp of cracked hooves.
He is ours, the flash of star through her forelock says. Never mind the thin white line of scars down her haunches from his bites. Never mind the dried blood on her shoulder from his claws.
Shielded from the dapple grey, Dreamscar chances a peek at the angular creature that draws into the creche of shadow. As all such unknown things do, it causes that familiar spike of fear, and if he had the soft face of The Others, he might grimace. And if he understood empathy, he might recognize the intimacy of its greeting as the same with which he greets the black blockade of his own mother. He stands taller, reaching up to tuck into the hook of his dam's neck, curling against her so tightly that one clawed foot grasps her hoof.
So protected, he grows bolder, answering her offer with a rude, guttural, buzz he has learned from the crows.
Dreamscar
Carnage x Hippogryph
@ [Jakub]
@ [Niklas]
@ [Anaxarete]
Ooc edited so I'm killing the tags so y'all don't get swamped lol