06-26-2021, 07:24 AM
There is something strange about the way she walks, as if she is somehow constrained despite the long strides she can make on gold and violet striped legs. That strangeness is mostly disguised by her other physical aspects, like the soft frills of the fins that grow along the back of her legs and drape from her sides. Moira is scaled as well, with gills behind the fins at her cheeks, and she knows any who see her will know she is a creature meant for a life beneath the water.
That she keeps close to the river comes as no surprise, and every now and then she wades into the shallows and splashes the delicate grey scales of her underbelly with the cold water. Drying out is an uncomfortable sensation, and not one that Moira wants to repeat.
She is not heading anywhere in particular, so when she draws close to the pale mare weeping in the water, she pauses.
It is not the angel that draws Moira in, but the bluegill that circles her left hind foot and burbles his concern at how close it has come to his nest.
“Would you mind moving a bit to your right?” She asks the stranger. Her voice is grating when heard above the water, so she uses it infrequently. Speaking louder to be heard over the water and space will make the sound even worse, but the fry are only a few days away from hatching and such a late clutch is already going to face more than their share of troubles.
Her gaze does return back to the older woman, and Moira frowns in concern at her state as well. She cannot magically communicate with the other horse the way she can with her Fish Friend, and so she must ask aloud again, with concern audible even in her shrill tones.
“Can I help you? You don’t look too good, and it’s kind of bumming me out.” She feels empathy, is what she means with the last few words, but she’s still learning to phrase things politely, and not just blurt out whatever she feels to her mother and siblings.
@Lillia
That she keeps close to the river comes as no surprise, and every now and then she wades into the shallows and splashes the delicate grey scales of her underbelly with the cold water. Drying out is an uncomfortable sensation, and not one that Moira wants to repeat.
She is not heading anywhere in particular, so when she draws close to the pale mare weeping in the water, she pauses.
It is not the angel that draws Moira in, but the bluegill that circles her left hind foot and burbles his concern at how close it has come to his nest.
“Would you mind moving a bit to your right?” She asks the stranger. Her voice is grating when heard above the water, so she uses it infrequently. Speaking louder to be heard over the water and space will make the sound even worse, but the fry are only a few days away from hatching and such a late clutch is already going to face more than their share of troubles.
Her gaze does return back to the older woman, and Moira frowns in concern at her state as well. She cannot magically communicate with the other horse the way she can with her Fish Friend, and so she must ask aloud again, with concern audible even in her shrill tones.
“Can I help you? You don’t look too good, and it’s kind of bumming me out.” She feels empathy, is what she means with the last few words, but she’s still learning to phrase things politely, and not just blurt out whatever she feels to her mother and siblings.
@Lillia