11-05-2019, 10:20 PM
Blue blinks his long-lashed eyes, and then looks at himself. It is through Divest’s eyes as she takes it his features, and he is curious about what she sees, where she looks, how she tries to hide it. He likes looking, cannot fathom not doing so, and often prefers to do so from the gaze of others. He slips back to his own sight with another blink, and beams at her easy proclamation.
“I thought so too,” he tells her truthfully; that had seemed better than ‘Wing’ or ‘Boy’ or ‘Gale’, all ideas he had mulled over before introducing himself to the trio in the Field.
Divest seems pleased by his arrival, or at least the addition of another body to the population of the Resort. Blue decides to think that it is a bit of both, even if he thinks that the quiet of the place is a good bit of his charm. There are few horses here, and that means fewer probing questions, fewer dropped conversations when he realizes his options are to admit his lack of memory or make up an elaborate lie. Blue usually chooses the first. Someone, somewhere, had taught him the importance of truth. The pastel filly seems amused by his suggestion that Ruinam might be her father, and so her denial of the guess comes as no surprise. Ruinam is her mother’s friend, she explains, and yet the length of their acuwantiance sudden seems to concern her.
He would never dream of prying, but an empathetic flicker of concern crosses his own face, slipping away when it seems clear that the girl has handled the issue without speaking.
“Yes,” he affirms with a bob of his head. “We met in the Field, and I was in need of a place to go. And you? Have you always lived here then?”
“I thought so too,” he tells her truthfully; that had seemed better than ‘Wing’ or ‘Boy’ or ‘Gale’, all ideas he had mulled over before introducing himself to the trio in the Field.
Divest seems pleased by his arrival, or at least the addition of another body to the population of the Resort. Blue decides to think that it is a bit of both, even if he thinks that the quiet of the place is a good bit of his charm. There are few horses here, and that means fewer probing questions, fewer dropped conversations when he realizes his options are to admit his lack of memory or make up an elaborate lie. Blue usually chooses the first. Someone, somewhere, had taught him the importance of truth. The pastel filly seems amused by his suggestion that Ruinam might be her father, and so her denial of the guess comes as no surprise. Ruinam is her mother’s friend, she explains, and yet the length of their acuwantiance sudden seems to concern her.
He would never dream of prying, but an empathetic flicker of concern crosses his own face, slipping away when it seems clear that the girl has handled the issue without speaking.
“Yes,” he affirms with a bob of his head. “We met in the Field, and I was in need of a place to go. And you? Have you always lived here then?”