01-08-2021, 05:53 PM
She may smell like her sea-cliff home, but the frowning girl before her smells mostly of Loess - and of blood. Neither of those things put Popinjay off. The burning of Nerine is far enough in the past now that there is no smoke-smell to give the raiders away, there is nothing but memory and she was still in the Pampas on that day. She has only stories to go on, and few to share them.
No matter. The palomino's frown deepens and at the same time, her grin widens. She nods, unaffected by the dry sarcasm, and finds herself rewarded by that sharp-toothed grin.
"That's a good plan," the Rook nods earnestly, looking away from her newest friend for a moment to snap golden leaves from a close-by sapling. She chews them slowly, the bitter taste of greenwood flooding across her tongue. She likes palominos, she decides, looking back, "I also prefer winning."
And she hasn't lost yet. Well, maybe there was that one time. And there was that angry mare, with the strange stallion, and the prolonged sickness after the birth of her twins, but... Well, winning is a matter of perspective, perhaps. Poppy sheds the deadweight - can't fly carrying all that baggage, after all - but she knows how the others love to carry their sorrow close to them like a second skin, or huddled dark and burning in their chests. The Shifter looks like all the rest, world-weary, snarling, the lines of her face grooved with tragedy, making her young face seem older than it is. The lightning bird tips her head to one side.
"Maybe I can help. I like helping."
No matter. The palomino's frown deepens and at the same time, her grin widens. She nods, unaffected by the dry sarcasm, and finds herself rewarded by that sharp-toothed grin.
"That's a good plan," the Rook nods earnestly, looking away from her newest friend for a moment to snap golden leaves from a close-by sapling. She chews them slowly, the bitter taste of greenwood flooding across her tongue. She likes palominos, she decides, looking back, "I also prefer winning."
And she hasn't lost yet. Well, maybe there was that one time. And there was that angry mare, with the strange stallion, and the prolonged sickness after the birth of her twins, but... Well, winning is a matter of perspective, perhaps. Poppy sheds the deadweight - can't fly carrying all that baggage, after all - but she knows how the others love to carry their sorrow close to them like a second skin, or huddled dark and burning in their chests. The Shifter looks like all the rest, world-weary, snarling, the lines of her face grooved with tragedy, making her young face seem older than it is. The lightning bird tips her head to one side.
"Maybe I can help. I like helping."
@[breach]
