09-25-2020, 07:33 PM
Lightning laughs, choosing her tree
Popinjay wears her feathers today, relishes the feel of the sky rippling beneath her wings. It has been too long since she tasted the clouds, a brief, dull interval she intends to forget completely. Well, mostly.
A peal of laughter catches her attention far below, her eye finds the distant shapes of predator and prey. The mare doesn't run like prey, though, and from on high, Poppy tips her head curiously, begins her descent, and is fully horse again when she lands, small and dark, her black mane full of loose curls and witch's knots and crackling sparks. Nobody pays her a second glance. She has never met this clawed horse that scrabbles up the algae-slick ledges, but there are few that match her description. No, she is certain that the girl one of the dragonlings, and she's alone, except for the wolves nipping at her heels as if they cannot smell the smoke and the fire in her throat.
Popinjay watches from a distance, the benefit of her eagle eyes allowing her to follow unhurried, uncertain why the pack would chase this prey - they should have more sense. Perhaps she should let them meet the fate they pursue so fervently, awash in flames, but she does not feel like waiting anymore. A bright crack breaks the air between palomino and pack and the wolves scatter, whining, yelping, as the little bay waltzes out onto the sandy soil from where she had been near invisible among the trees, and she spares no look at the foolish hunters. The sharp smell of chlorine flavors the air around her.
Dark eyes trace the claws and swirls and jade antlers, and Poppy thinks those tines would look lovely among the night-black flytraps that have sprung up since this tawny and teal child took part in the burning of Nerine, and she smiles her wide smile, flashing white teeth.
"Oops."
A peal of laughter catches her attention far below, her eye finds the distant shapes of predator and prey. The mare doesn't run like prey, though, and from on high, Poppy tips her head curiously, begins her descent, and is fully horse again when she lands, small and dark, her black mane full of loose curls and witch's knots and crackling sparks. Nobody pays her a second glance. She has never met this clawed horse that scrabbles up the algae-slick ledges, but there are few that match her description. No, she is certain that the girl one of the dragonlings, and she's alone, except for the wolves nipping at her heels as if they cannot smell the smoke and the fire in her throat.
Popinjay watches from a distance, the benefit of her eagle eyes allowing her to follow unhurried, uncertain why the pack would chase this prey - they should have more sense. Perhaps she should let them meet the fate they pursue so fervently, awash in flames, but she does not feel like waiting anymore. A bright crack breaks the air between palomino and pack and the wolves scatter, whining, yelping, as the little bay waltzes out onto the sandy soil from where she had been near invisible among the trees, and she spares no look at the foolish hunters. The sharp smell of chlorine flavors the air around her.
Dark eyes trace the claws and swirls and jade antlers, and Poppy thinks those tines would look lovely among the night-black flytraps that have sprung up since this tawny and teal child took part in the burning of Nerine, and she smiles her wide smile, flashing white teeth.
"Oops."
@[asphyxea]
