01-02-2021, 07:00 PM
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Targaryen had been hoping the golden eagle was the only creature to see his messy landing, but the sound of a stranger approaching brings his eyes away from inspecting himself for damages. With a stranger of a father and an absent mother (as absorbed in the world of nature as she was, he visits every few weeks and finds her rooted into the same soil as his last visit), the boy was forced to learn entirely on his own. A plethora of siblings lie scattered throughout Beqanna, but Targaryen knows neither names nor faces. As soon as he could stomach grass, the boy has been alone.
And although his eyes are fully functioning, Targaryen feels so isolated he might as well be wandering in the dark.
The girl has a soft, dark face but he takes a singular step away from her. Unintended social isolation has made him wary of strangers, even if they are friendly girls. “Um, yeah, I’m fine.” Targaryen’s cheeks feel warm with embarrassment, but he shuffles his bi-colored wings at his sides to settle himself. “Sorry you had to see that. I’m still learning how to use my wings,” he admits quietly.
The golden eagle, apparently uncomfortable with his perch in the tree, floats on a low-riding breeze to Targaryen’s back, where he lands at the boy’s withers. The eagle’s claws sting for a moment and Targaryen grits his teeth against the pain but makes no move to shoo the bird away. It feels rude to move the bird from a comfortable position, and he is certain he can handle the eagle’s weight despite the way the stinging has melted into a slow, tolerable burn.
“My name’s Targaryen. What’s yours?”
And although his eyes are fully functioning, Targaryen feels so isolated he might as well be wandering in the dark.
The girl has a soft, dark face but he takes a singular step away from her. Unintended social isolation has made him wary of strangers, even if they are friendly girls. “Um, yeah, I’m fine.” Targaryen’s cheeks feel warm with embarrassment, but he shuffles his bi-colored wings at his sides to settle himself. “Sorry you had to see that. I’m still learning how to use my wings,” he admits quietly.
The golden eagle, apparently uncomfortable with his perch in the tree, floats on a low-riding breeze to Targaryen’s back, where he lands at the boy’s withers. The eagle’s claws sting for a moment and Targaryen grits his teeth against the pain but makes no move to shoo the bird away. It feels rude to move the bird from a comfortable position, and he is certain he can handle the eagle’s weight despite the way the stinging has melted into a slow, tolerable burn.
“My name’s Targaryen. What’s yours?”
@[Catryn]