04-14-2015, 01:38 PM
Dorne had missed the disasters, and having only seen the greenery that remained in the Deserts from the flood, does not consider them too terrible a thing. She is unaware of the culture of fear that they have inspired in Beqanna among those with homes that might have been lost. Dorne had no home, and no worries. She is still homeless now, but the worry has finally begun to set in.
When she turns to the grey mare, it does not occur to Dorne that the other might be worried. She is somewhat taken aback by the fear in the other female’s voice, and perplexed at the worry. “Wha… No. No, I’m fine. I did it. The fire, I mean. I caused the fire.” The words are a tumble, hurried to try and assuage Pharaon’s concern, without much thought on Dorne’s part. “Thank you though,” she adds belatedly, “For your concern, I mean. Thanks.”
She’s only just stopped speaking when they are joined by another pair, a mare and her foal. They come from the Dale, Dorne knows; she would know that scent anywhere. Don’t react, she tells herself, just breathe, And she does just that, breathes slowly, so that the fire inside her emerges only as a thin stream of smoke from her speckled nostrils. “It’s from me,” she says to them both, curious despite herself at why Talulah might ask. Had she expected it to be Lyric? Had her mother known this mare? Don’t ask, she tells herself, don’t. So she does not.
“I’m Dorne.” She tells them all (all, because they have been joined by a chestnut pegasus and a grey stallion with wings of his own). I had wings once, Dorne thinks, wide and dark, with supple leathery skin that had her soaring. They are gone now, and her shoulders are covered only by spots. “How, uh, how are you all today?”
When she turns to the grey mare, it does not occur to Dorne that the other might be worried. She is somewhat taken aback by the fear in the other female’s voice, and perplexed at the worry. “Wha… No. No, I’m fine. I did it. The fire, I mean. I caused the fire.” The words are a tumble, hurried to try and assuage Pharaon’s concern, without much thought on Dorne’s part. “Thank you though,” she adds belatedly, “For your concern, I mean. Thanks.”
She’s only just stopped speaking when they are joined by another pair, a mare and her foal. They come from the Dale, Dorne knows; she would know that scent anywhere. Don’t react, she tells herself, just breathe, And she does just that, breathes slowly, so that the fire inside her emerges only as a thin stream of smoke from her speckled nostrils. “It’s from me,” she says to them both, curious despite herself at why Talulah might ask. Had she expected it to be Lyric? Had her mother known this mare? Don’t ask, she tells herself, don’t. So she does not.
“I’m Dorne.” She tells them all (all, because they have been joined by a chestnut pegasus and a grey stallion with wings of his own). I had wings once, Dorne thinks, wide and dark, with supple leathery skin that had her soaring. They are gone now, and her shoulders are covered only by spots. “How, uh, how are you all today?”