08-31-2021, 12:36 PM
The midnight pegasus had only a few moments in which he could study the strange moth-child undisturbed before there was the voice of another breaking from amongst the trees. 'She's not alone,' came the bold assertion and the brute turned his great skull in that direction to see his fiery, golden gaze falling upon the grey colt. Amusement sparked deep within him -- a fleeting sort of feeling, but one which could surely be detected by the Empath nonetheless. The first emotion he had allowed himself since the children had first disturbed his rest high within the treetops. Ah, young bravado, he idly mused as his attention skimmed across the form of the much younger male. The sight of ice trailing in his wake was certainly interesting and it was a fact the winged stallion took note of silently, a bit of information filed away for later perusal. But of far more immediate interest was the clearly protective sort of stance the colt took at the side of the antenna-adorned filly.
His velveteen lips twitched oh-so-briefly at the sight.
More spirit than sense -- that was the way of children, especially the colts. But he found it almost endearing in a way. Ymir, the icy colt gave for a name. And Saturnelle the moth-child soon supplied. Ymir. The heavily scarred pegasus gave him one more once-over as he mused, for but a moment, how the young one vaguely reminded him of his own sons. It was a swiftly passing thought and one which stirred no feeling within his soul, no note of sorrow as that brief memory of his life before strummed across his heart.
His children were all dead and there was no sense in lingering upon the past, upon that which was and cannot be changed.
But this Saturnelle? Here was a little creature who stoked his curiosity. Golden eyes turning upon her once more at last, he finally allowed for an introduction of his own to rumble forth. A mere dark utterance of: "Cassiell." And then his attention was tossed back Ymir's way when he added, a thread of amusement lacing its way through his tone, "And as for what I was doing in that tree? Taking a nap if you must know." As though in punctuation to such a confession, he rolled his shoulders to see his raven-hued wings unfurling to their full expanse. A brief stretch and nothing more before those appendages saw themselves tucked back alongside his marred torso.
"Now then," he mused, his rich baritone unfurling past his lips like a peal of low thunder. "What are a couple of young ones like you doing wandering about?" Faintly canting his head to the side, he further observed: "You seem lost," though those final words were directed more toward the child with the moth wings rather than her winter-touched companion.
His velveteen lips twitched oh-so-briefly at the sight.
More spirit than sense -- that was the way of children, especially the colts. But he found it almost endearing in a way. Ymir, the icy colt gave for a name. And Saturnelle the moth-child soon supplied. Ymir. The heavily scarred pegasus gave him one more once-over as he mused, for but a moment, how the young one vaguely reminded him of his own sons. It was a swiftly passing thought and one which stirred no feeling within his soul, no note of sorrow as that brief memory of his life before strummed across his heart.
His children were all dead and there was no sense in lingering upon the past, upon that which was and cannot be changed.
But this Saturnelle? Here was a little creature who stoked his curiosity. Golden eyes turning upon her once more at last, he finally allowed for an introduction of his own to rumble forth. A mere dark utterance of: "Cassiell." And then his attention was tossed back Ymir's way when he added, a thread of amusement lacing its way through his tone, "And as for what I was doing in that tree? Taking a nap if you must know." As though in punctuation to such a confession, he rolled his shoulders to see his raven-hued wings unfurling to their full expanse. A brief stretch and nothing more before those appendages saw themselves tucked back alongside his marred torso.
"Now then," he mused, his rich baritone unfurling past his lips like a peal of low thunder. "What are a couple of young ones like you doing wandering about?" Faintly canting his head to the side, he further observed: "You seem lost," though those final words were directed more toward the child with the moth wings rather than her winter-touched companion.
cassiell
temperance is a virtue
@Saturnelle @ymir