04-09-2021, 02:48 PM
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“Ow.” For a moment, the sharp and then blossoming ache of pain distracts Targaryen from his embarrassment. Exasperation makes him wonder if he should be used to pain by now, with all the stumbling, falling, and getting clawed. Yet, the pain from being attacked by a predator feels very different from the pain associated with tripping over nothing in front of a girl (even if the girl is his best friend). At least he could find some bravery in the claw marks on his skin.
Falling over a stick, letting a little groan slip from his mouth, and seeing the awkward bend in his wing — Targaryen feels as if he swallowed all the sand from Taiga’s shore. Fallen pine needles dig sharply into his side, and the boy wonders if he could melt into the soft soil if he thought about it hard enough. Surely he has inherited some aspect of Noori’s abilities; now would be the perfect time to become a simple little plant.
Unfortunately, Targaryen doesn’t sprout roots for feet or leaves for ears. The boy reasons that his next best bet would be to play it off, to ignore the embarrassment that spreads warmth across his cheeks. If he couldn’t become a tree, maybe he could pretend he is someone much braver than reality (much like the way he had put on a strong face in front of Yanhua). So when Cheri asks if he is okay, Targaryen speaks with as much confidence as he can muster. “There must’ve been an earthquake. Your jewels definitely protected you from feeling it.”
The humor sparks a more genuine version of bravery into his bones, but it fades in an instant when Cheri’s dark nose begins searching him for injuries. Her touch is so soft, so gentle, and it feels like a balm to his skin even without her magic flowing. Targaryen feels warm again, but this time it is deeper than his embarrassment. The sand in his stomach has migrated elsewhere, and the tobiano can do nothing but wait and hope her eyes stay on his twisted wing.
Her nose does heal the parts of him that need mending, and he feels the familiar heat of her magic. Cheri works quicker than the first time she healed him, and the boy notes the way her power feels narrower and more concentrated. Targaryen stands and flexes his wing once he has space, focusing his residual tension on the way Cheri has perfected her skill.
When his brown eyes find hers, there is gratefulness in their depths. “Thank you… Again. You’ve gotten really good with your magic.” Targaryen smiles in the darkness, a look that isn’t entirely pure. Before Cheri might think any better of it, the boy uses his newly-healed wing to shove his friend before breaking into a lope, following the trail ahead of them.
Falling over a stick, letting a little groan slip from his mouth, and seeing the awkward bend in his wing — Targaryen feels as if he swallowed all the sand from Taiga’s shore. Fallen pine needles dig sharply into his side, and the boy wonders if he could melt into the soft soil if he thought about it hard enough. Surely he has inherited some aspect of Noori’s abilities; now would be the perfect time to become a simple little plant.
Unfortunately, Targaryen doesn’t sprout roots for feet or leaves for ears. The boy reasons that his next best bet would be to play it off, to ignore the embarrassment that spreads warmth across his cheeks. If he couldn’t become a tree, maybe he could pretend he is someone much braver than reality (much like the way he had put on a strong face in front of Yanhua). So when Cheri asks if he is okay, Targaryen speaks with as much confidence as he can muster. “There must’ve been an earthquake. Your jewels definitely protected you from feeling it.”
The humor sparks a more genuine version of bravery into his bones, but it fades in an instant when Cheri’s dark nose begins searching him for injuries. Her touch is so soft, so gentle, and it feels like a balm to his skin even without her magic flowing. Targaryen feels warm again, but this time it is deeper than his embarrassment. The sand in his stomach has migrated elsewhere, and the tobiano can do nothing but wait and hope her eyes stay on his twisted wing.
Her nose does heal the parts of him that need mending, and he feels the familiar heat of her magic. Cheri works quicker than the first time she healed him, and the boy notes the way her power feels narrower and more concentrated. Targaryen stands and flexes his wing once he has space, focusing his residual tension on the way Cheri has perfected her skill.
When his brown eyes find hers, there is gratefulness in their depths. “Thank you… Again. You’ve gotten really good with your magic.” Targaryen smiles in the darkness, a look that isn’t entirely pure. Before Cheri might think any better of it, the boy uses his newly-healed wing to shove his friend before breaking into a lope, following the trail ahead of them.
@[Cheri]