07-17-2019, 03:33 PM
Pteron watches with rapt interest as the horse in front of him begins to transform. His olive eyes are open wide in contrast to Aodha’s concentration closed, and he doesn’t blink lest he miss even the smallest detail. The shape is not quite right when the once-horse opens his eyes again, and the young stallion watches in fascination as the falcon adjusts bits of himself to better resemble Aten’s companion.
“That’s so cool,” he finally says, and his blue muzzle nods sharply in satisfaction. The bird speaks with a voice that is both like Aodhan and the screech of a hunting hawk, and though it is harsh to Pteron’s ears he does not flinch away. Instead he waits, having half-determind that he’d best lean down just as the other male suggests it. Nodding in ascent, Pteron bends down. To further assist he half unfolds his nearest wing, pressing it forward so that the wrist wrests on the cool earth and dewy grass.
“Don’t worry about the talons,” Pteron says, because he knows that had he claws such as the raptors that he’d be concerned to dig them into a stranger. “Even if you gig me, it’ll heal fast.” Waiting for the falcon to adjust its grip, Pteron’s gaze turns to the clearing around them. Open spaces like these are uncommon in the Taiga, but they they are usually the best places from which to take off. Pteron prefers the risk of takeoff in the trees, where each flap of his massive wings must be a careful to not knock against a massive trunk. He’s missed a fair few times and is quite familiar with the many ways in one might break a wing.
Best to not break a wing on Aodhan’s first flight, the young stallion tells himself.
So he glances over the broad meadow, spotting a place where the ground slopes up. A boulder lies beneath that, Pteron knows, and indeed his hooves slam on hardy granite as he checks the safety of his passenger and takes one two, three strides and then he is airborne. He has to sweep back to avoid brushing his hooves against the trees, and keeps one ear flicked back to be sure Aodhan remains secure. Then he slimbs higher with swift beats of his wings, up until they have reached a place in the sky where the air does not move overmuch and they might hear each other speak.
“We’re a ways up now,” he tells Aodhan, as though their height is not spectacularly obvious. “I think if you just spreads your wings and take-off there’s plenty of room between here and the ground for you to learn to fly. And if there’s not, I’ll just catch you and we’ll try again.” he says the last with casual confidence, which he hopes is reassuring to his passenger. He and his siblings have played catch-the-falling-feather a hundred times; how different can a falcon and a feather really be?
@[Aodhan]
ooc: I did speed up to them being in the air so let me know if you want me to change anything!
“That’s so cool,” he finally says, and his blue muzzle nods sharply in satisfaction. The bird speaks with a voice that is both like Aodhan and the screech of a hunting hawk, and though it is harsh to Pteron’s ears he does not flinch away. Instead he waits, having half-determind that he’d best lean down just as the other male suggests it. Nodding in ascent, Pteron bends down. To further assist he half unfolds his nearest wing, pressing it forward so that the wrist wrests on the cool earth and dewy grass.
“Don’t worry about the talons,” Pteron says, because he knows that had he claws such as the raptors that he’d be concerned to dig them into a stranger. “Even if you gig me, it’ll heal fast.” Waiting for the falcon to adjust its grip, Pteron’s gaze turns to the clearing around them. Open spaces like these are uncommon in the Taiga, but they they are usually the best places from which to take off. Pteron prefers the risk of takeoff in the trees, where each flap of his massive wings must be a careful to not knock against a massive trunk. He’s missed a fair few times and is quite familiar with the many ways in one might break a wing.
Best to not break a wing on Aodhan’s first flight, the young stallion tells himself.
So he glances over the broad meadow, spotting a place where the ground slopes up. A boulder lies beneath that, Pteron knows, and indeed his hooves slam on hardy granite as he checks the safety of his passenger and takes one two, three strides and then he is airborne. He has to sweep back to avoid brushing his hooves against the trees, and keeps one ear flicked back to be sure Aodhan remains secure. Then he slimbs higher with swift beats of his wings, up until they have reached a place in the sky where the air does not move overmuch and they might hear each other speak.
“We’re a ways up now,” he tells Aodhan, as though their height is not spectacularly obvious. “I think if you just spreads your wings and take-off there’s plenty of room between here and the ground for you to learn to fly. And if there’s not, I’ll just catch you and we’ll try again.” he says the last with casual confidence, which he hopes is reassuring to his passenger. He and his siblings have played catch-the-falling-feather a hundred times; how different can a falcon and a feather really be?
@[Aodhan]
ooc: I did speed up to them being in the air so let me know if you want me to change anything!