it's a guarantee that he won't forget me.
my body little, my soul heavy.
The atmosphere is tense, not cruel but it is clear that the three kingdom dwellers are not particularly fond of one another. Naia, statuesque and dancing an irritated two-step in her mind, tunes out the tossed quips. They are in one ear and out the other, registered but not required information. Truthfully, all of their voices are beginning to grate on her ears: the only indication the slow drooping of her lids as she attempts to drift further away from their lackluster slights.
I don’t want to go home with a single damn one of you.
One word - it is one word that snaps her lids back to attention. No, not a just word but a name. Leilan? Her brain jumps from one thought to the next, a tiny imagined version of her leaping over stepping stones at the speed of light.
“You’re my dad,” the words are choked but still a half-yell, spoken over Leilan as he never seems to stop. Her eyes fall into a glare as she rears her head up, sparing one cold look at Mary and Ivar. How fucking uncomfortable. Naia seethes: if steam could hiss from her ears, it would. The anger cools just as quickly as it boiled over, the lava of her pale brown eyes simmering.
Leilan ends his rambling and Naia clears her throat: “You are my father.” Her eyes hold steady to his, then stray back to the other crown-holders - this time almost (almost) apologetic.
A smile stretches across her lips before she addresses them, never quite reaching her near-solemn eyes. “This is . . . awkward.” Her smile becomes tight-lipped in that long pause. “Can one really continue to recruit after a moment like this?” One hoof presses into the malleable grass, an almost imperceptible nervous tick (no matter how coincidental).
The filly says no more, pursed lips now just pursed and no longer curved. She stares, uncomfortable and close to angry with her father for revealing himself this way.
@[Ivar] @[Leilan] @[Mary]