lost to these linens / warrick

[Warrick]

we are crooked souls trying to stay up straight

His daughter is bold and fearless (much how he had been as a child himself), a smile finding his dark navy lips as she laughs joyously. She is untouched by the cruelness of the world, protected by the great wings of her father that keeps the shadows and fear at bay. He cannot protect her forever, he knows (Solace and Svedka are left to their own devices now in the ways of the world), but he will do so for as long as he can. Warrick can see, however, that the young filly holds a certain wonderous heart, one that he can see will make it hard for him to keep her grounded, set fire by a wandering soul and an adventurous, daydream-like mind. The thought, though it makes him sorrowful (for she will quickly grow, more so than his other children had), brings a warmth in his chest, for she will not live a simple, quaint life. He can already tell by her spirit that she is destined for much more.

Wishbone jumps - quickly and without warning! - and Warrick’s smile fades as his brow furrows, attempting to leap forward to perhaps somehow catch his daughter. He is unsuccessful, for she is on the ground before he can do anything about it, though his face rushes to meet hers with fluttering nostrils, warm breaths against her skin as he quickly examines her. He barely has enough time to do so, for she has clamered upwards onto her thin legs in a scramble, a huff leaving her tiny chest. She’s quickly beneath him, met with the quick rustling of wings as they stretch outwards from his body, lowering his face so that his muzzle touches the charcoal of her nose, twitching his whiskers against hers. With a soft kiss on her nose he lifts his head, his blue eyes still on his daughter.

“They did,” he tells her, stretching the navy feathers farther with just a flick of the lithe bone, their grand wingspan casting a shadow over them both. The smell of wind and sun return with the movement, bold against the normal smoke and ash beneath the mountain. He curls one of the wings, the very tip of the longest feather turning to rest beneath her chin, “My family came from the stars, and the fairies saw it fit that I should be able to return to them whenever I wish.” He smiles warmly, flicking the curled wing back out to reach its full width, beating them once, twice in a grand sweep of wind and sand, before letting them fall limp at his sides. He knew she would want to investigate them more.

Warrick

@[Wishbone]