As she looks down smiling, the girl fires question after question. Sending requests for information from her very tiny mouth. Very tiny, curious mouth. Killgore looks at the girl through her hard dark eyes, plucking the answer to her first demand from her knowledge bank. ”Why, you made it do that my darling. It is called death, or murder to be more precise.” She looks at the crumbled up remnants without emotion, not displaying any sense of guilt or remorse to the child’s actions. ”Many things crunch, many things squish. Some squeak, others cry, and still most scream. Little things are easiest to snuff, larger things can achieve the same state, though it may be some time before you accomplish that task.” The Mother left nothing to sugar coating, only facts, and the filly was hardly birthed. It would take time for her to build the size or strength, to physically end the life of things bigger than herself.
”There are many forms of death Kersey. This is but one. Some have a way with words that can accomplish an equally satisfying outcome. Words can kill the soul, words can make things yours. Sometimes words can make others create death for you.” She almost purred her relinquish of knowledge to her daughter, looking up at the mess of nest on a lower bough. The tips of peeping beaks peeked up over the edges, popping up and down in their cries for food, their calls for their mother. Without missing a beat at the next request, the bay rears, pressing her maw out. She stretched her head and neck as far as they would go, butting the bottom of woven grasses in the extension. Two lightly feathered chicks tumble from their bed, landing with soft thumps against the earth below. Indeed some of their tiny bones broke in the fall, but they struggled no less with those that remained intact. Killgore lands lightly, taking a few back-steps as to avoiding smashing the chirping birds herself. ”There you are darling, all for you.” Nothing but encouragement from dear old Mom.
She thinks hard for a moment, why was the girl purple? , it undoubtedly came from her Father. Someone Killgore had hardly known, hadn’t known really, she had gone to him at the bequest of Kirin. ”I do not doubt your father is responsible for your color. Your brother watched him as he fell from the skies, burning as he entered our atmosphere.” Our atmosphere, because it was not his. He was more than Beqanna, he was more than this world, than ALL worlds.
