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She chatters in way that I’ve come to associate with women, or men who might as well be ladies themselves, her smiles swift, her laughter free. If I was of a mind to let it rattle me, it would get on my nerves that she is so unfettered by the shackles of life, but as it is, I simply ignore it, continuing on as if she isn’t prattling on about the Rotunda we make our way towards.
That she accuses me of being blind to beauty makes me look at her with a much longer look than my cursory glances (to allow her the assumption that I really care at all that she knows where we are going). Still, I guess I can’t blame her – it’s not like she’s got to know me much more than the swiftness of my tongue and temper, or the indignant way that I can treat those I feel have slighted me. Besides, its not like pretty things are exactly a man’s forte, anyway, and it could be quite simply that she thinks of me in a soldierly way, the sort of fellow who sees the world as pinpoints on a map of strategy – but I am a scholar, as well as a man of conquest, and I know pretty things when I see them. Her playful spin through the air draws my eyes up from the muddy, snow pocked road, the fresh smell of crisp snow radiating off of her in sharp contrast to the impure mess that this weak winter has left behind.
Pretty things, like her, all smiling with her curls tousled in her face, the sunlight breaking through the gaps in her feathers and shining through the outmost ones, His long, golden fingers draped across her shoulders, and spilling down her blue tinted bodice.
"I may be an ass, but I’m not blind," I mutter at her.
Being pretty, however, does not change that I hate her, or that she is flying on her freaky bird wings.
I snort, almost in response to her question as to whether she can tag along – but its really just to clear my head of the distraction of female allure (no matter the species), my golden eyes snapping back on the path ahead. As much as I mind her coming, I don’t think I can divert her.
The snort leads, within very little time, to a short sigh.
"I guess," I remark, "though it may be disappointing."
I borrow her own words, from earlier in this day – as if to accent how very peculiar her kindness is now, in contrast to her riled outrage previously, and to remind her that I haven't forgotten the way she'd so crassly prodded at my feelings to appease her own frivolous whims.
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