Set
He swings around to meet her less than friendly greeting, his black wings melting back into nothingness as the magic thrums in his veins. She is small; but that is only an observation, not a detriment. The smallest of creatures are typically the most tenacious. It is a smile that welcomes her, lips drawn up into the mismatched black and white of his face, bright eyes dancing with the mischief that he was only just missing.
Rather than answer her, he studies her, moving off to her side in a roundabout way, scarred muzzle dipping into the mess of wildflowers as he goes. When he moves, it is predatory and confident through no conscious thought of his; certainly, he is not stalking her – he can feel the thekwane under her skin, the little hippogriff mutt, even the little equine whose laughter is now adrift at sea. The hum of insects lies thick and heavy in his ears and he pauses, as if her invitation for him to get lost is one that demands profound thought.
Smacking his lips together suddenly, he looks back up at her, watching her expression carefully. “Can one be lost if they don’t belong any-particular-where in the first place?” He tilts his head, brow furrowed, the taste of her suggestion spiced and perfumed. His chest trembles with a bark of laughter and he moves again, nosing through the blooms.
Set has never been one to be idle and that particular characteristic manifests itself in his oft demonstrated inability to stand still. He drifts around her, eyes rolling over the scars that cover her left flank. His own itch at the sight, his knotted ropes of scar tissue lining his shoulders. He snaps his tail and shifts, a tawny mountain lion with his bright eyes stretching in his place. He takes a moment to roll in a particularly fragrant clump of blood-red poppies before sitting up and finding her gaze, whiskers twitching with ill-disguised amusement. “Are you always so disagreeable?”
Rather than answer her, he studies her, moving off to her side in a roundabout way, scarred muzzle dipping into the mess of wildflowers as he goes. When he moves, it is predatory and confident through no conscious thought of his; certainly, he is not stalking her – he can feel the thekwane under her skin, the little hippogriff mutt, even the little equine whose laughter is now adrift at sea. The hum of insects lies thick and heavy in his ears and he pauses, as if her invitation for him to get lost is one that demands profound thought.
Smacking his lips together suddenly, he looks back up at her, watching her expression carefully. “Can one be lost if they don’t belong any-particular-where in the first place?” He tilts his head, brow furrowed, the taste of her suggestion spiced and perfumed. His chest trembles with a bark of laughter and he moves again, nosing through the blooms.
Set has never been one to be idle and that particular characteristic manifests itself in his oft demonstrated inability to stand still. He drifts around her, eyes rolling over the scars that cover her left flank. His own itch at the sight, his knotted ropes of scar tissue lining his shoulders. He snaps his tail and shifts, a tawny mountain lion with his bright eyes stretching in his place. He takes a moment to roll in a particularly fragrant clump of blood-red poppies before sitting up and finding her gaze, whiskers twitching with ill-disguised amusement. “Are you always so disagreeable?”
@[Popinjay]