02-06-2020, 12:48 AM
She almost doesn't even blink anymore when she sees wings, doesn't flinch and sneer the way she did when she first arrived in Beqanna, so when she notices the pale mare crossing the meadow in her direction, Neverwhere barely concerns herself over the shimmering dragonfly wings. Perhaps just a quick flick of her ears over their not being the usual feathered ones as if stolen from an enormous bird, but wings are wings, and it's all part of the same magic she is slowly coming to be more accustomed to. There are worse things, harder things to understand and come to term with. She doesn't scoff or roll her eyes, and Neverwhere is quietly congratulating herself on this growth when she finally really notices the flowering vines. It wouldn't be correct to say that she didn't see the vines lacing from poll to tail earlier - certainly they couldn't be missed - but they didn't register as anything unusual at first. There are such vines growing wild here and there, though they are typically climbing up trees along the forest edges and rarer in the meadow - and never on horses.
Her congratulations turn to curses but she doesn't move, only watches the birds fly and swoop as though catching flies, and, at first, this makes it's own sort of sense, because there are many little birds flying around, swallows and flycatchers skimming the tall grass for unfortunate insects. There are hungry, noisy mouths waiting back in nests made of grass and mud, and the birds are frenzied to find enough food for those demanding bellies, but these birds seem to have no purpose beyond circling round and round the beshrubbed mare. Neverwhere's tail flicks, a faint feeling of irritation rippling through her. It's one thing to ignore wings, but this is all getting be be a bit much. Wings and vines and birds. There are limits to what anyone should be expected to accept as appropriate. She snorts.
"Why are you a bush?" It's barely dawn, and she's already done with today.
Her congratulations turn to curses but she doesn't move, only watches the birds fly and swoop as though catching flies, and, at first, this makes it's own sort of sense, because there are many little birds flying around, swallows and flycatchers skimming the tall grass for unfortunate insects. There are hungry, noisy mouths waiting back in nests made of grass and mud, and the birds are frenzied to find enough food for those demanding bellies, but these birds seem to have no purpose beyond circling round and round the beshrubbed mare. Neverwhere's tail flicks, a faint feeling of irritation rippling through her. It's one thing to ignore wings, but this is all getting be be a bit much. Wings and vines and birds. There are limits to what anyone should be expected to accept as appropriate. She snorts.
"Why are you a bush?" It's barely dawn, and she's already done with today.
Neverwhere
...
@[Isilya]
