09-16-2020, 03:25 PM
He has precious little patience, the boy. Neither of his parents had any to begin with, truth be told, and there had been none left over to breed into their children. But he tries. The boy does try. Because he understands, on some basic level, the social contract. His mother had taught him how to bite his tongue, one of the precious few things she had taught him.
And his father. Well, his father had taught him the importance of answering questions. Perhaps his sudden spark of irritation is born from his remembering how he had shirked his father’s questions. How his father’s irritation had resulted in Gravitas and his twin having to fend off an army of Stave’s skeletal minions.
The boy huffs something sideways and shifts his weight at the older stallion’s answer. Marginally helpful. Somehow, though, he doubts the faeries will go for it. And then he offers his name, though Gravitas had not asked for it.
The boy grits his teeth, trying to temper his temper. “Can you elaborate?” he asks without offering his own name in return.
G R A V I T A S
