05-06-2020, 12:17 AM
She was not quite what you would call refined.
A necessary death. He is matter-of-fact, and without knowing his dam, it is hard for Poppy to find a great deal of empathy for the mare ripped asunder so her boy might emerge whole into the world. She hadn't been there for those searing minutes, nor for any of the aftermath that followed, and it is hard to predict how she might feel if she had seen the blood blooming on snow like red and black flowers waking out of season. Blood has never frightened her.
But, for a moment, the little bay stops her prancing, her claws cutting into the earth making thin furrows in the dirt. She stops, when he asks her why, and looks at him with her head tipped slightly to the right so her forelock falls away from the wide grinning star on her brow, her lips twisting into the smallest frown.
Caught.
"I'm not - not really." She actually isn't sorry, her selfish heart beats unburdened by the sadness she pretends at, "I'm pretty sure that's just what you're supposed to say when someone says their Mama's died. Sorry," the smile lights up her face again and she shrugs, "But I'll say whatever you like, I don't care."
And she doesn't, because Popinjay is on a grand adventure. She bares her teeth at him and their flat edges snick together quietly. No wicked points hidden in her mouth, but her eyes gleam with her usual mischief.
"But who needs 'em?"
Certainly she doesn't. Except for flashing those manic grins.
She shakes her head, sending the curling tendrils of her black mane flying in the air. It's unecessary, she can shift without the dramatics, but she does prefer them. When the hair settles, a small, fast, sharp, beak has appeared distorting the end of her dark muzzle. It is not as impressive at this size, matched so well to her own petite frame, not the way it is when she is a nine-foot bird soaring the skies in search of trouble and prey. As promised, she has no teeth, she must swallow her meat torn into bloody pieces, or whole - and if asked, she might later say that she has no real preference for one of these options over the other because she is delighted either way by the shock and horror the writes itself across the faces of her friends and family.
And, as promised, she remains mostly silent, because the hard keratin of her bill is not made for speech and she has not learned the trait for mimicry so many birds have, but she pulls close to the draconic stallion again, close enough to wrap her pointed beak against the shell of his warm scales.
But, for a moment, the little bay stops her prancing, her claws cutting into the earth making thin furrows in the dirt. She stops, when he asks her why, and looks at him with her head tipped slightly to the right so her forelock falls away from the wide grinning star on her brow, her lips twisting into the smallest frown.
Caught.
"I'm not - not really." She actually isn't sorry, her selfish heart beats unburdened by the sadness she pretends at, "I'm pretty sure that's just what you're supposed to say when someone says their Mama's died. Sorry," the smile lights up her face again and she shrugs, "But I'll say whatever you like, I don't care."
And she doesn't, because Popinjay is on a grand adventure. She bares her teeth at him and their flat edges snick together quietly. No wicked points hidden in her mouth, but her eyes gleam with her usual mischief.
"But who needs 'em?"
Certainly she doesn't. Except for flashing those manic grins.
She shakes her head, sending the curling tendrils of her black mane flying in the air. It's unecessary, she can shift without the dramatics, but she does prefer them. When the hair settles, a small, fast, sharp, beak has appeared distorting the end of her dark muzzle. It is not as impressive at this size, matched so well to her own petite frame, not the way it is when she is a nine-foot bird soaring the skies in search of trouble and prey. As promised, she has no teeth, she must swallow her meat torn into bloody pieces, or whole - and if asked, she might later say that she has no real preference for one of these options over the other because she is delighted either way by the shock and horror the writes itself across the faces of her friends and family.
And, as promised, she remains mostly silent, because the hard keratin of her bill is not made for speech and she has not learned the trait for mimicry so many birds have, but she pulls close to the draconic stallion again, close enough to wrap her pointed beak against the shell of his warm scales.
@[ghaul]
