05-17-2020, 10:30 AM
Hey all you cool cats and kittens
Her expression is stiff in return when the pale mare offers a conciliatory remark about being a tree. Not for everyone is surely an understatement, while the other thinks of sheltering small animals, Neverwhere thinks of woodpeckers and beetles with the same irritation she might meet horseflies and engorged ticks. She thinks of horses and deer stripping bark and leaves, and the thought of being eaten alive bit by strip makes her shudder. She barely manages to conceal it, some better place in her thinking that perhaps this is a bit too far. Instead, she shakes her head, loosening the tension the builds along her crest and shoulders, and shifts her weight back to a more relaxed stance while the magician considers her proposition. Her idea is met with hesitation that seems to melt into a grin and enthusiasm and though she hides most of her own amusement in a flick of her ears, there is still a broadening of the smirking smile on her lips.
"Don't worry, Lilliana loves jokes," This is probably true, "But you have to try real hard to make her believe it, or it won't be as funny."
There's a quiet moment between them - the white-faced mare has never been the best conversationalist, and she struggles, now, to to hold up her end of the encounter. The other mare's name tumbles over itself in her head like an acorn fallen into a rushing stream. It feels familiar, though she cannot say why she would know it, and finally shrugs the strange sense of familiarity away. Like most things, Neverwhere expects that if she waits long enough, the answer will come on its own without any additional coaxing. Instead she turns to watch the woven birds fly and swoop in such perfect mimicry of the real birds that they are not given any great berth by those of flesh and feather.
"Neverwhere, Isilya" She blurts her name out carelessly and without much context, then changes the subject abruptly, pointing with her scarred muzzle back to the fluttering manikins "Why do you make them?"
Surely the effort outweighs the reward?
"Don't worry, Lilliana loves jokes," This is probably true, "But you have to try real hard to make her believe it, or it won't be as funny."
There's a quiet moment between them - the white-faced mare has never been the best conversationalist, and she struggles, now, to to hold up her end of the encounter. The other mare's name tumbles over itself in her head like an acorn fallen into a rushing stream. It feels familiar, though she cannot say why she would know it, and finally shrugs the strange sense of familiarity away. Like most things, Neverwhere expects that if she waits long enough, the answer will come on its own without any additional coaxing. Instead she turns to watch the woven birds fly and swoop in such perfect mimicry of the real birds that they are not given any great berth by those of flesh and feather.
"Neverwhere, Isilya" She blurts her name out carelessly and without much context, then changes the subject abruptly, pointing with her scarred muzzle back to the fluttering manikins "Why do you make them?"
Surely the effort outweighs the reward?
That bitch, Neverwhere
@[Isilya]
