12-04-2021, 10:49 PM
Does he mind that she is not how she was in his youth?
Sickle had shared a tale of horror attached to the memory of their mother, but the worst the black colt recalls suffering from her had been disinterest. Against his father’s cruelties, her brusqueness and even the occasional rough handling had left no lasting impression. Instead, he recalls the reckless abandon with which she’d treated life with an idealized golden glow, the brightness with which childhood is often recalled.
“You were a little more fun to be around, I guess.” He says, and though he is honest because he knows she wants him to be, Malik still has difficulty meeting her gaze as he admits this. She had been a blazing firebrand, illuminating his childhood with her willingness to participate in the most reckless of plans. She’d let him hunt wolves once, and the adrenaline that came from nearly dying a half dozen times remains one of his favorite memories.
He is old enough now to recognize some of the wisdom in the new rules that Mazikeen had imposed since her resurrection. There are more deer this year than Malik can recall there have been before. But he still remembers the feel of the wyvern’s claw, the smooth curve and sharply pointed tip. He’s nearly three years old and is still unable to grow claws like that. Even his younger sister can do that.
Malik shakes his head, as though he might physically display the uncomfortable tightening of jealousy that he always feels when he thinks too much about what he is unable to do. He is desperate for a distraction, enough that he asks the first question that comes to mind: “What did you mean earlier when you said that you weren’t you when I was little? Who were you?”
@Mazikeen
Sickle had shared a tale of horror attached to the memory of their mother, but the worst the black colt recalls suffering from her had been disinterest. Against his father’s cruelties, her brusqueness and even the occasional rough handling had left no lasting impression. Instead, he recalls the reckless abandon with which she’d treated life with an idealized golden glow, the brightness with which childhood is often recalled.
“You were a little more fun to be around, I guess.” He says, and though he is honest because he knows she wants him to be, Malik still has difficulty meeting her gaze as he admits this. She had been a blazing firebrand, illuminating his childhood with her willingness to participate in the most reckless of plans. She’d let him hunt wolves once, and the adrenaline that came from nearly dying a half dozen times remains one of his favorite memories.
He is old enough now to recognize some of the wisdom in the new rules that Mazikeen had imposed since her resurrection. There are more deer this year than Malik can recall there have been before. But he still remembers the feel of the wyvern’s claw, the smooth curve and sharply pointed tip. He’s nearly three years old and is still unable to grow claws like that. Even his younger sister can do that.
Malik shakes his head, as though he might physically display the uncomfortable tightening of jealousy that he always feels when he thinks too much about what he is unable to do. He is desperate for a distraction, enough that he asks the first question that comes to mind: “What did you mean earlier when you said that you weren’t you when I was little? Who were you?”
@Mazikeen