12-20-2019, 08:39 PM
Owin comes first. Even if she had thought the others might not know her, he would recognize her thoughts. Bird thoughts are strikingly like her horse thoughts, she thinks. What he tells her does not feel very important, though perhaps it is. There is a small place in her that is rapidly approaching adulthood and recognizes that a change in leardership is a serious thing, but for the most part, she simple doesn't care. Who leads the Taigan woods is a matter far beyond where her own interests lie. Still upside-down, she cocks her head slightly, one large, nearly-black eye focusing on the horse that she so easily dwarfs.
It is not Aten. Was it supposed to be? Her face feels strange and immobile beneath the sharp-tipped beak, but her pupil narrows and the feathers puff out, then fall flat and sleek once again She does not know - how does Owin know? But how does Owin know anything? He can dip in and out of others' thoughts as he pleases, and besides that is far more likely to have had such serious discussions. Poppy knew Aten as the Champion, but as the heir? It had never been spoken of around her - at least, not when she deigned to pay attention.
She is a selfish thing.
He tells her to pull herself together, and that elicits a sharp trill in the back of her throat. She snaps her beak in the air between them as Pteron, and then Aten with Kalil, draw nearer, and as they do, she releases her grip on the dirt and stone and the sapling trapped in the vicious curl of her claws, creating a cloud of dust and a second, much smaller, rumble and crash as rock and tree hit the ground before the tense stallions. Kalil asks her if she is hurt, but she does not think so, and begins the awkward and laborious work of righting herself. It is not a simple task, and not a dignified one, but Popinjay has never been much bothered by something as trivial as dignity. Of more concern, maybe, is that each time one red-striped wing strikes against the ground, it fans out toward the small crowd that has gathered, threatening to sweep them off their hooves. By the time she is up right, her feathers ruffled and scuffed and full of dirt, grass, and leaves, her breast heaves and she is panting heavily beneath the bemused frowns of Pteron and her family. Upright, it is much less easy to convince herself that they are laughing, not frowning.
She detests that seriousness and sneezes dust at them.
It is not Aten. Was it supposed to be? Her face feels strange and immobile beneath the sharp-tipped beak, but her pupil narrows and the feathers puff out, then fall flat and sleek once again She does not know - how does Owin know? But how does Owin know anything? He can dip in and out of others' thoughts as he pleases, and besides that is far more likely to have had such serious discussions. Poppy knew Aten as the Champion, but as the heir? It had never been spoken of around her - at least, not when she deigned to pay attention.
She is a selfish thing.
He tells her to pull herself together, and that elicits a sharp trill in the back of her throat. She snaps her beak in the air between them as Pteron, and then Aten with Kalil, draw nearer, and as they do, she releases her grip on the dirt and stone and the sapling trapped in the vicious curl of her claws, creating a cloud of dust and a second, much smaller, rumble and crash as rock and tree hit the ground before the tense stallions. Kalil asks her if she is hurt, but she does not think so, and begins the awkward and laborious work of righting herself. It is not a simple task, and not a dignified one, but Popinjay has never been much bothered by something as trivial as dignity. Of more concern, maybe, is that each time one red-striped wing strikes against the ground, it fans out toward the small crowd that has gathered, threatening to sweep them off their hooves. By the time she is up right, her feathers ruffled and scuffed and full of dirt, grass, and leaves, her breast heaves and she is panting heavily beneath the bemused frowns of Pteron and her family. Upright, it is much less easy to convince herself that they are laughing, not frowning.
She detests that seriousness and sneezes dust at them.
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
