It seems the elkear has slowed her down more than she knew because she doesn't notice the intrusion until the Sylvan has pressed well into the clearing and is nearly on top of her. The smell of electricity is a familiar one. Manikin glares at the blue mare, the black feathers of her mane lifting from their flat place along her neck to match the threat that curls soft like thunder in the bright red bay of her chest. She does nothing more than threaten, though, remembering too well the flavor of lightning on her tongue like mother's milk, and because the elkear's final blow has left her vision blurred. In Sylva's ever-golden glow, Sabra is incandescent, an awful, shifting halo of multi-colored light surrounds her and makes the meat in Manikin's belly feel too heavy. Bile surges against the back of her throat and she swallows thickly in response to the thunderbird's commands, the muscles of her jaws quivering. Something behind the words makes her want to comply, but she is a stubborn thing.
"No." She croaks, crafting the word as a crow does with the practiced flex of throat and tongue. There is nothing melodic about that voice, none of the sweetness she saves for tripping up Avocet's memories in carefully laid traps. Instead of following, instead of bathing, she vomits at the Sylvan's cotton candy feet - a swirl of foamy bile, and her barely-digested meal - and hardens the sharp edge of her eagle-eye stare while stained strings of drool stretch from beaked mouth to ground.
She has no interest in bathing, indeed prefers to avoid deep-water entirely, though she is a reasonable swimmer. The spring rains will come and wash away the black, dried, blood sticking her feathers together, so rather than follow, the monster sits (the awkwardness of the position a hard emphasis on her open rebellion) and returns the speared mare's imperious glower.
"No." She croaks, crafting the word as a crow does with the practiced flex of throat and tongue. There is nothing melodic about that voice, none of the sweetness she saves for tripping up Avocet's memories in carefully laid traps. Instead of following, instead of bathing, she vomits at the Sylvan's cotton candy feet - a swirl of foamy bile, and her barely-digested meal - and hardens the sharp edge of her eagle-eye stare while stained strings of drool stretch from beaked mouth to ground.
She has no interest in bathing, indeed prefers to avoid deep-water entirely, though she is a reasonable swimmer. The spring rains will come and wash away the black, dried, blood sticking her feathers together, so rather than follow, the monster sits (the awkwardness of the position a hard emphasis on her open rebellion) and returns the speared mare's imperious glower.
@[Sabra] gramma lee says this post is joful
