Vaguely, the surgeon hears Sjal call herself a princess and categorizes it away in his list of facts. It is not interesting to him, but it might be useful at some point. At the very least, Erebos might like to know that there are others walking around calling themselves princes and princesses. In the surgeon’s mind, of course, Erebos is the one true prince. Unfortunately, his true prince is not here now and he has to sort through the social awkwardness that he has created for himself.

No, the other boy snaps at him, and the half-child lays his ears back for a moment, confusion clouding his normally passive face. The emotion fades in a moment, all features returned to their rightful place, only to be replaced again a second later when the boy claims his wing is late. Adelric has studied life. There is no… late. Well, not exactly… Turning to Tobias, the surgeon’s eyes fall to the cervid’s antlers. Much like his horn, they had been small when the cerndyr was born, but they are large now. But wings… He turns back to the bay boy… wings are not like antlers. They are not firm and rigid like sticks or bones. They are made of flesh and blood, sinew and life, and things that the half-child has not known to come late. Is the boy a statistical anomaly?

The scientist’s musings are interrupted by the voice of the girl. Frowning his displeasure (ever glad that Ophelia taught him he does not have make everyone like him), the half-child turns to face her for a moment, considering her words. He should be upset by her statement, feelings hurt, heart pounding, eyes watering, or having some other emotional response to her insult. Strangely, he feels nothing. The statement is true. Who is he, mere mortal that he is, to feel bad about knowing the truth? Indeed, he surely feels worse about the intimidating sneer that she wears for him.

Casting his eyes downward, away from the small girl with a gaze larger than his own, he bobs his head slowly in agreement. “I am uninteresting,” he agrees. A moment later, his eyes begin to wander upward again. “You, however…” he murmurs to the boy, taking another step towards the missing wing that the colt has tried to hide. “Can I touch it?” he asks boldly, science motivating his actions more than intelligence. This was not the time or place for such a query, but then… was there ever a bad time for science?

@[Zèklè]

Adelric

We only have what we give.