The other boy does not take kindly to insults. Bonebone bases this assessment on the clot of flame the alights on his short black mane and singes his mud and pink colored neck. Looking back at his neck as though trying to lay eyes on a fly that has landed there, Bonebone observes the withering collapse of his fuzzy mane and the pink wound that appears where flames lap at his skin. He feels that burn, but pain, while a unique sensation does not scream down his nerves or set him to writhing. There is hardly any reaction from Bonebone at all beyond observing what has happened. Bemused, he looks back at the spotted colt who had inflicted the flames upon him. Why had he done that? “Oh-kayyyy…” Says Bonebone slowly, stepping closer to his attacker, little neck smoldering though the flames have winked out.
“We could be fairies if we wanted to, Fyr. He is an eerie sort of child, but speaks in a very refined, mature way to the other, angrier boy. Play is not beneath the pink patterned colt, his mother plays with him all the time, though their games often involve a considerable amount of risk-taking or violence. A snort erupts from his small nostrils and he reaches out to sniff at the fire-wielder who is obviously uninterested in play despite being in the playground. “I don’t know any Fae. My father is a demon, I suppose that is of comparable interest.” Of course he has not yet met Draco, though his father holds some kind of position in Pangea his mother does not seem to think the introduction necessary. Morgayne cannot be bothered with anyone in their homeland beyond his twin uncles and himself. The fanged pink roan mare tells her son that she used to have a best friend named Malone but that she has not seen him in a very long time. Bonebone would like to have a best friend too.
“My mother is asleep and I had nothing to do. Why are you here so late?” Black eyes mirror the flames that encircle the two of them. If he is meant to be frightened by the tongues of fire, he is not. Whatever fear is missing in his dam is missing twice over in the undead son. “What is it like being terrible?” It seems strange to describe oneself that way. Bonebone wonders what kinds of words he would use to describe himself in the same fashion that Fyr had. I’m Bonebone and I’m… He can’t think of anything. He is just Bonebone.
@Fyr