[open] wednesday my empty arms were open

[Kensa]

for every tyrant, a tear for the vulnerable
in every lost soul, the bones of a miracle

He tells her only that he had an outing with a friend and she would have given him a friendly sort of suspicious look if they hadn’t had their faces tucked together so intimately. He is reluctant to say even this, and huffs and tenses and so Kensa lets it go, lets him change the subject because after all he is here to clear his head. Already she is distracted from her struggle to come to terms with all these changes, and finds that she wants to help her bay and viridian friend find that distraction too.

Clayton turns to look Kensa in the face and she does the same, their necks arching out in a heart shape, noses tilted in. His question makes her smile, but the reason for it isn’t clear, her head tilts and a shrug rolls over her inside shoulder. “You tell me, Clay.” She says with a laugh in her voice, reaching out to nip at his muzzle in a good-natured way (no teeth, just a brush of her lips). She couldn’t have missed the way he’d mooned over beautiful Warlight, though she doesn’t bring that up, doesn’t tease him about that only. “The one time we spoke  you couldn’t wait to get away.” She does laugh then, watches his face to see if he remembers her wild flaxen locks and disarming smile as she lay there in the grass interrupting whatever errand he had been on. She remembers him, determination in green, horns too big, a twinge of irritation in his brow that, looking back, was a bit endearing for all it’s grumpiness (grumpiness he had quickly stifled).

kensa

for every dreamer, a dream. we're unstoppable with something to believe in.

@[Clayton] Sorry short but this is what she wanted to say.