The gentle touch goes unnoticed, lost in everything else that the youth is feeling, and it takes her a moment to realize she’s being healed. That the flow of blood against her skin has slowed and her body is becoming solid once more. Now instead of being hazy with pain, Mazikeen is almost drunk on the relief of it fading into a gentle roar instead of a blasting scream.
Had her mind been clearer, Maze might’ve noticed the shock in the golden mare when their eyes might. Might’ve felt that sting of rejection, might’ve remembered what it felt like to have a golden boy rebuff her friendship in the cool shadows of the forest.
She’s so focused on how nice it is to not be bleeding though that she doesn’t think of it at all. Does not realize anything has changed in the air until she hears the sharpness of the palomino’s voice, demanding answers, and Maze just blinks those damning bright orange eyes at her in confusion.
The question is so bizarre, so completely out of the blue, that it makes Mazikeen’s head swim almost as much as the pain had moments ago. Or maybe it is the pain that lingers still and she cannot sort it all out. “... No? My dad is Garbage.” There’s a small hazy smile at this statement and she corrects herself because, left as it was, she believes it not to be true. Like Agetta, Mazikeen wishes her father had a kinder name - but unlike Agetta, Mazikeen occasionally finds humour in it.
“His name is Garbage.”
@[craft]