Dreamscar has thrown himself to the ground in a sulky huff, lying propped up against the thick pillars of his mother’s forelegs, and angles grumpy but harmless bites at her knees. Hippogryph quiets for a moment, choosing a steadier stance, and returns to her wild-eyed discourse, talking to no-one. She rarely stays quiet, yet never says much that seems worth saying. His name crosses her lips several times. In truth, the dark colt is not even sure that this word is his name, it could just be some random thing the mare’s cracked mind put together, in fact, he is certain that is exactly what it is, even if it is intended to be a name. A bit of raw nonsense, or maybe a rare moment of clarity for her. It would be hard for anyone to tell, let alone the unsocialized youngster biting petulantly at her leg.
Certainly he is nobody’s idea of a good dream, even if he is not the worst of monsters.
His belly roils slightly as the small bit of blood and meat that accompanied his meal is digested. His physiology was clearly a misturn of his parents’ magics to make him require a diet of roughage when he is unable to chew, to make him unable to digest large portions of meat, but to outfit him with the weaponry of a bird of prey. His stomach bellows once again and with a small half-whine, he rubs the scaled back of one curled, taloned, claw against the ridge of his eye in a steady, slow, repeat - self-soothing.
Once. Twice. Thrice. Amber eyes flutter open and, unexpectedly, find themselves looking straight into the ice-blue gaze of an observing fox.
He knows foxes. Sometimes they steal the carcasses of the rabbits and woodchucks from under the crows’ beaks. The fox smiles but Dreamscar does not reciprocate. The corners of his mouth, where the horn of his beak becomes flesh, are upturned naturally, but completely immovable, a sort of permanent, clownish, smirk. He also does not know what a smile could mean, as his dam has never done it, and he has never been physically near enough to anyone else to have seen it done. It only serves to unsettle the colt, the opposite of its intended purpose.
He puts his foreclaw down slowly, pressing it back to the cold, stoney, ground, and lifts himself up again to all four legs. His unease has rippled into Hippogryph and her ears have fallen back into her wild mane as she casts about for the threat, her yellowed teeth bared, but the colt brushes his avian head against her chest.
It’s nothing, Mama, not words, but she understands, relieving the tension of her skin, while, on ungainly bird legs, Dreamscar turns and approaches the fox in a half crouch. He is not shy with his love inducement and wears it thick around him like too much cologne, a colorless smog of protection against those that would harm him.
Who are you, what do you want? Again, not words, but clacking beak and the scant feathers across his chest standing on end as though they are enough to make him appears larger than he is. For all her constant chatter, Hippogryph cannot teach her beaked son to speak, he has learned to mimic only a rare few words, few of which seem appropriate just now. The fox has turned it's gaze away to drink and, already a hunter, the colt's crouch deepens as if to pounce, though he is too far away for more than a defensive lunge.
I can't eat a fox, but I can definitely kill one!
@[Jesper]
Certainly he is nobody’s idea of a good dream, even if he is not the worst of monsters.
His belly roils slightly as the small bit of blood and meat that accompanied his meal is digested. His physiology was clearly a misturn of his parents’ magics to make him require a diet of roughage when he is unable to chew, to make him unable to digest large portions of meat, but to outfit him with the weaponry of a bird of prey. His stomach bellows once again and with a small half-whine, he rubs the scaled back of one curled, taloned, claw against the ridge of his eye in a steady, slow, repeat - self-soothing.
Once. Twice. Thrice. Amber eyes flutter open and, unexpectedly, find themselves looking straight into the ice-blue gaze of an observing fox.
He knows foxes. Sometimes they steal the carcasses of the rabbits and woodchucks from under the crows’ beaks. The fox smiles but Dreamscar does not reciprocate. The corners of his mouth, where the horn of his beak becomes flesh, are upturned naturally, but completely immovable, a sort of permanent, clownish, smirk. He also does not know what a smile could mean, as his dam has never done it, and he has never been physically near enough to anyone else to have seen it done. It only serves to unsettle the colt, the opposite of its intended purpose.
He puts his foreclaw down slowly, pressing it back to the cold, stoney, ground, and lifts himself up again to all four legs. His unease has rippled into Hippogryph and her ears have fallen back into her wild mane as she casts about for the threat, her yellowed teeth bared, but the colt brushes his avian head against her chest.
It’s nothing, Mama, not words, but she understands, relieving the tension of her skin, while, on ungainly bird legs, Dreamscar turns and approaches the fox in a half crouch. He is not shy with his love inducement and wears it thick around him like too much cologne, a colorless smog of protection against those that would harm him.
Who are you, what do you want? Again, not words, but clacking beak and the scant feathers across his chest standing on end as though they are enough to make him appears larger than he is. For all her constant chatter, Hippogryph cannot teach her beaked son to speak, he has learned to mimic only a rare few words, few of which seem appropriate just now. The fox has turned it's gaze away to drink and, already a hunter, the colt's crouch deepens as if to pounce, though he is too far away for more than a defensive lunge.
I can't eat a fox, but I can definitely kill one!
@[Jesper]