01-23-2020, 09:19 PM
She has never paid much attention to the discussions of those older than her, but she suddenly finds herself rushing headlong into adulthood herself, her down fur and soft, rounded edges giving way to sleek length, and with it, a change in what grabs her attention. Perhaps it’s lucky, today, that this is the case, because her ears catch the knife-flick soft voice of the stallion when he alerts to her presence. It gives her seconds only, but seconds are enough. When the clack and crash of gnashing teeth and rattling bone spins round to meet her, the young mare is already pulling up sharply with a wild grin on her lips and her eyes shining merrily, heedless of the threat that surrounds her.
Stupid girl, she should be afraid, but she brushes the fear away with her bright laughter. Her gaze lands first on the stallion, and he gleams dully in the forest like a beetle, but even the giant staghorn beetles that eat and breed within the fallen trees of Taiga are not so deadly looking as he, though she wonders how he, too, would fare if knocked over on his back. Is he agile enough to roll back up, or would he rock side to side, helpless? Does his armor cover his belly, or is it soft there and vulnerable? The beetles are hard all over, but they are not predators. And while sometimes it takes a predator to know one, in his case it is written so plainly across every part of him that it almost isn't worth noticing, and certainly not worth mentioning. She is more upset that he ruined her game and her boundless smiles turn to pouting. Popinjay screws up her face and snorts rudely at him while the black mare hisses a warning, making the youth turn to her, expression brightening.
“You could, but horse bones are so boring. Everybody has them. Even he has them… I guess.” She looks back at the stallion with a bird-like tilt of her head, “Well, maybe not. I dunno what he has.” Undeterred, she looks back at the bone mannequin shaking its antlers at her, and she hums appraisingly, but manages to refrain from touching. “I think it needs wings. Could it fly, if it had wings? Or would it just rattle even more?”
At the mention of wings, she feels a ripple across the dark mantle of her coat, the bird wrestles to be released, hungry for the sky, but she reins the creature in enough that only a few feathers appear, mottled against the deep black of her mane. She shakes them back at the bone creature in response to its threat display.
Poppy ignores the smoldering anger that she imagines boiling in the creature’s eyeless sockets.
“Have you named it? Can I name it? What's your name? And yours, Beetle-Boy?”
Stupid girl, she should be afraid, but she brushes the fear away with her bright laughter. Her gaze lands first on the stallion, and he gleams dully in the forest like a beetle, but even the giant staghorn beetles that eat and breed within the fallen trees of Taiga are not so deadly looking as he, though she wonders how he, too, would fare if knocked over on his back. Is he agile enough to roll back up, or would he rock side to side, helpless? Does his armor cover his belly, or is it soft there and vulnerable? The beetles are hard all over, but they are not predators. And while sometimes it takes a predator to know one, in his case it is written so plainly across every part of him that it almost isn't worth noticing, and certainly not worth mentioning. She is more upset that he ruined her game and her boundless smiles turn to pouting. Popinjay screws up her face and snorts rudely at him while the black mare hisses a warning, making the youth turn to her, expression brightening.
“You could, but horse bones are so boring. Everybody has them. Even he has them… I guess.” She looks back at the stallion with a bird-like tilt of her head, “Well, maybe not. I dunno what he has.” Undeterred, she looks back at the bone mannequin shaking its antlers at her, and she hums appraisingly, but manages to refrain from touching. “I think it needs wings. Could it fly, if it had wings? Or would it just rattle even more?”
At the mention of wings, she feels a ripple across the dark mantle of her coat, the bird wrestles to be released, hungry for the sky, but she reins the creature in enough that only a few feathers appear, mottled against the deep black of her mane. She shakes them back at the bone creature in response to its threat display.
Poppy ignores the smoldering anger that she imagines boiling in the creature’s eyeless sockets.
“Have you named it? Can I name it? What's your name? And yours, Beetle-Boy?”
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
@[Stalag] @[violence]
