07-27-2019, 06:17 PM
(This post was last modified: 07-27-2019, 06:21 PM by Neverwhere.)
“Wings?”
An interesting thought, flight, it would probably make her own nomadic lifestyle easier to some extent. There would be places that would not be such a struggle to reach. But it also comes with its own problems. She has seen the winged horses, and most are bulky in the middle. They do not pass quietly between trees, indeed, many of them simply avoid the trees when they grow so tight that their branches and their roots intermingle. That is territory that a horse can easily navigate without wings, but with, they are a liability.
She wonders if the horses’ wings are as easily damaged as the bird wings they most resemble. The hollow bones that shatter and splinter so easily under a horse’s hoof. Do they moult? Do they pluck out the feathers when under duress like a parrot kept forever in a cage? And what of their care? She has seen birds preening frequently, their feathers require constant attention to maintain health and their air-worthiness. Do the horses preen? She does not know, has not seen it.
No, perhaps not wings, then, not for Neverwhere, at any rate. She tries instead to imagine them on Lilliana, chestnut feathers stirring in the wind. No doubt their needs would be nothing to the her, full of wonder as she is.
“I am sure you would wear them well.”
When Lilliana’s bird flies away, Neverwhere lifts her head, tracing its flight path deeper into the woods where they cannot see. The familiar itch starts up in the back of her head, she is ready to be moving again, but it is so soon, and probably rude. She quells the urge, returning her attention to Lilliana who is touching on the beauties of a nomadic life. For a minute, she considers what things must look like through the other mare’s wide, blue, eyes, and then, suddenly, she laughs.
It’s not a particularly pretty laugh, as much a bark as anything else.
“Lilliana, I can’t exactly see the views that well no matter how amazing they are!” She snorts, amused, then, concerned that the chestnut’s melancholy has not, perhaps, passed fully, “Come on, I’m tired of standing still, what is there to do around here?”
An interesting thought, flight, it would probably make her own nomadic lifestyle easier to some extent. There would be places that would not be such a struggle to reach. But it also comes with its own problems. She has seen the winged horses, and most are bulky in the middle. They do not pass quietly between trees, indeed, many of them simply avoid the trees when they grow so tight that their branches and their roots intermingle. That is territory that a horse can easily navigate without wings, but with, they are a liability.
She wonders if the horses’ wings are as easily damaged as the bird wings they most resemble. The hollow bones that shatter and splinter so easily under a horse’s hoof. Do they moult? Do they pluck out the feathers when under duress like a parrot kept forever in a cage? And what of their care? She has seen birds preening frequently, their feathers require constant attention to maintain health and their air-worthiness. Do the horses preen? She does not know, has not seen it.
No, perhaps not wings, then, not for Neverwhere, at any rate. She tries instead to imagine them on Lilliana, chestnut feathers stirring in the wind. No doubt their needs would be nothing to the her, full of wonder as she is.
“I am sure you would wear them well.”
When Lilliana’s bird flies away, Neverwhere lifts her head, tracing its flight path deeper into the woods where they cannot see. The familiar itch starts up in the back of her head, she is ready to be moving again, but it is so soon, and probably rude. She quells the urge, returning her attention to Lilliana who is touching on the beauties of a nomadic life. For a minute, she considers what things must look like through the other mare’s wide, blue, eyes, and then, suddenly, she laughs.
It’s not a particularly pretty laugh, as much a bark as anything else.
“Lilliana, I can’t exactly see the views that well no matter how amazing they are!” She snorts, amused, then, concerned that the chestnut’s melancholy has not, perhaps, passed fully, “Come on, I’m tired of standing still, what is there to do around here?”
Neverwhere
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