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11-18-2015, 09:41 PM
tembovu
Those who stand for nothing fall for anything.
His deep blue gaze follows the path of the vibrant dragon as settles and curls with the pearlescent Erthe. The orange of his scales leap against the contrasting ivory, and he feels some of his ire towards the fire beast melt as it comforts his young friend. Perhaps he was not so bad— even if he did breath fire.
His gaze flickers to Evangeline as she speaks, “I can’t heal her.” His brows raise the reason for Erthe’s still-injured legs becomes apparent with each word the Moon Doctor speaks. His expression, amusedly peeved, melts to grave concern as his darkening eyes slowly swing back to the tightly curled ball of the filly he had grown so protective over (grown to care for).
He nods his head in agreement with her words of braces, but the great head shifts to shaking as she mentions ‘glass’ for the braces. Her question and the word ‘metal’ conjure up the image of Sno’s death. More specifically, a black-and-bronze man with a metal shadow-pet creating a raft for transporting the body.
“I agree, metal would be better than glass. I do know of one man in the herd. His name is…” he paused, thinking. Ophelia had mentioned his name, what had it been? Nulik? Ulnik? Bulrick? “Ulrik,” the name popped from his whiskered lips.
He studies Erthe, and her crooked forelimbs. “I can find him and ask him if he could make such things,” he sighs quietly, “Though I hope, perhaps foolishly, that we might find a way to heal her limbs.” He then takes a few steps towards the filly, tired of talking about her instead of to her.
He drops his head to her laying form, thick lips ruffling the curls at her withers. “How are you, little Erthe?” The question wasn’t pertaining to her legs, for it was obvious they were injured. He wanted to know how the spritely foal was faring with her injury.
His gaze flickers to Evangeline as she speaks, “I can’t heal her.” His brows raise the reason for Erthe’s still-injured legs becomes apparent with each word the Moon Doctor speaks. His expression, amusedly peeved, melts to grave concern as his darkening eyes slowly swing back to the tightly curled ball of the filly he had grown so protective over (grown to care for).
He nods his head in agreement with her words of braces, but the great head shifts to shaking as she mentions ‘glass’ for the braces. Her question and the word ‘metal’ conjure up the image of Sno’s death. More specifically, a black-and-bronze man with a metal shadow-pet creating a raft for transporting the body.
“I agree, metal would be better than glass. I do know of one man in the herd. His name is…” he paused, thinking. Ophelia had mentioned his name, what had it been? Nulik? Ulnik? Bulrick? “Ulrik,” the name popped from his whiskered lips.
He studies Erthe, and her crooked forelimbs. “I can find him and ask him if he could make such things,” he sighs quietly, “Though I hope, perhaps foolishly, that we might find a way to heal her limbs.” He then takes a few steps towards the filly, tired of talking about her instead of to her.
He drops his head to her laying form, thick lips ruffling the curls at her withers. “How are you, little Erthe?” The question wasn’t pertaining to her legs, for it was obvious they were injured. He wanted to know how the spritely foal was faring with her injury.
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