11-16-2019, 10:17 AM
Names have power. Names get you eaten. In the Atlantean fever-dream, only the Sphinx, ever hungry for information, had asked her name. And then he had eaten her. Perhaps it would have done so regardless, but it was a lesson learned eventually.
She knows that she is back in the real world because everybody asks her what her name is. Well, not everybody in this group, of course. They all know her name, they are her old faces, where Straia's is new, though she insists strongly it is the other way around. She smells like feather dust and... of regular dust, really, rock and soil and bone fine as the powder down that lifts from the raven's black feathers when he ruffles his beak into his breast. Popinjay whispers to him under her breath, there are good places to find trinkets where the mountain lake drains down ancient creekbeds, dislodging colorful stones. The native ravens nest there at the edges, along the cliffs, so he will have to be fast, but it is worth it if he is.
Her ear twists towards the sound of the mare's voice but her eyes are slow to match it, holding the dark and glittering gaze of the raven for a moment longer. When she does shift her attention, it comes with only the slightest turn of her head, the near-black of her brown eye pulling back to meet that of the bay and white's blazed face. There are worlds in the spotted mare's eyes, tucked away in shadow, secrets that make the others cautious.
Why are her friends so off-put by her secrets, as though no-one else has any? She may be from a time before and smell of bonedust and birds, but that is nothing so spectacular. There are many dusty old immortals in the land, and certainly Aten shares the feather scent in common with her. Suspicion rolls out of their skin, even as they lay information at her feet, giving more than they recieve in return, but Popinjay has recently learned the benefit of occasionally holding her cards close to her chest, even if the others may not believe it, and even if, unlike Aten and the mares, she is moved to like the tobiano mare with her crafty, curling smile.
"You can call me Poppy - most of them do!" She says with her typical breathless manner, withdrawing her muzzle to both gesture at the other three, and so that the hard syllables of her nickname do not haphazardly displace the raven's feathers, "Has he got a name?"
She pauses, her eyes flicking briefly to the large black bird before returning to the mare, "Who are you?"
A question of identity more than simply a request for a name.
She knows that she is back in the real world because everybody asks her what her name is. Well, not everybody in this group, of course. They all know her name, they are her old faces, where Straia's is new, though she insists strongly it is the other way around. She smells like feather dust and... of regular dust, really, rock and soil and bone fine as the powder down that lifts from the raven's black feathers when he ruffles his beak into his breast. Popinjay whispers to him under her breath, there are good places to find trinkets where the mountain lake drains down ancient creekbeds, dislodging colorful stones. The native ravens nest there at the edges, along the cliffs, so he will have to be fast, but it is worth it if he is.
Her ear twists towards the sound of the mare's voice but her eyes are slow to match it, holding the dark and glittering gaze of the raven for a moment longer. When she does shift her attention, it comes with only the slightest turn of her head, the near-black of her brown eye pulling back to meet that of the bay and white's blazed face. There are worlds in the spotted mare's eyes, tucked away in shadow, secrets that make the others cautious.
Why are her friends so off-put by her secrets, as though no-one else has any? She may be from a time before and smell of bonedust and birds, but that is nothing so spectacular. There are many dusty old immortals in the land, and certainly Aten shares the feather scent in common with her. Suspicion rolls out of their skin, even as they lay information at her feet, giving more than they recieve in return, but Popinjay has recently learned the benefit of occasionally holding her cards close to her chest, even if the others may not believe it, and even if, unlike Aten and the mares, she is moved to like the tobiano mare with her crafty, curling smile.
"You can call me Poppy - most of them do!" She says with her typical breathless manner, withdrawing her muzzle to both gesture at the other three, and so that the hard syllables of her nickname do not haphazardly displace the raven's feathers, "Has he got a name?"
She pauses, her eyes flicking briefly to the large black bird before returning to the mare, "Who are you?"
A question of identity more than simply a request for a name.
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
@[Straia]
