She was not quite what you would call refined.
He tilts his head at her, and there is something in the expression that is familiar, but Poppy has always been terrible with remembering the faces around her, especially translated into new shapes. He could be anyone's child and she declines to guess whose, but an old, recognizable, giddiness is rising her throat as thoughts ripple and race through her mind like starlings over an autumn meadow, barely skipping a beat when he throws her chiding back with a simple question. She drops her head low, to the height of her rounded withers, and casts a keen, searching glance left and right of her, then peers back at him with a conspiratorial grin.
"Not here."
Her voice is a whisper, small ears forward, and the bright star on her brow peeking from between the soft curl of her forelock like a jovial moon through drifting clouds. The wind that rises from the ravine tears the fog to shreds around her, but rather than come to meet him at the head of the bridge, she drops to her knees, front legs folding beneath her, then hinds, and though the trunk trembles slightly with the weight of the sky's breath against it, she rests as if the dizzying depth below is nothing. It is her turn to cock her head, a snapping, avian motion. Her skin shivers and dark, mottled feathers gather at her edges, then reabsorb. Sharp eyes flick over his small wings. Poppy never had wings like that, but once upon a time she had a friend that did. Small, soft, nothing but down and pins. Insufficient. A shame - chasing the wind from the ground just never works as well.
"My mama didn't like me to come here," Her voice is still a whisper, but now, there is a rhythmic, melodic quality to it, "she didn't like me to dance on the Giant's head. She was so afraid I would be hurt, but nothing feels as close to flying as this - except maybe for falling." She can feel his desire from here, in the way he moves, in the jealous restlessness of his young wings, a nestling perched at the edge of his bed, testing, pushing, ready to jump even though he's still wholly incapable of flight, "I bet you aren't afraid of anything, huh?"
"Not here."
Her voice is a whisper, small ears forward, and the bright star on her brow peeking from between the soft curl of her forelock like a jovial moon through drifting clouds. The wind that rises from the ravine tears the fog to shreds around her, but rather than come to meet him at the head of the bridge, she drops to her knees, front legs folding beneath her, then hinds, and though the trunk trembles slightly with the weight of the sky's breath against it, she rests as if the dizzying depth below is nothing. It is her turn to cock her head, a snapping, avian motion. Her skin shivers and dark, mottled feathers gather at her edges, then reabsorb. Sharp eyes flick over his small wings. Poppy never had wings like that, but once upon a time she had a friend that did. Small, soft, nothing but down and pins. Insufficient. A shame - chasing the wind from the ground just never works as well.
"My mama didn't like me to come here," Her voice is still a whisper, but now, there is a rhythmic, melodic quality to it, "she didn't like me to dance on the Giant's head. She was so afraid I would be hurt, but nothing feels as close to flying as this - except maybe for falling." She can feel his desire from here, in the way he moves, in the jealous restlessness of his young wings, a nestling perched at the edge of his bed, testing, pushing, ready to jump even though he's still wholly incapable of flight, "I bet you aren't afraid of anything, huh?"
@[Nashua]