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graasvoel
It is futile, this searching in the misted woods. There is little to see and even less to scent. His ears hear the distant crash of the ocean and keen of gulls—the small man’s terrified dash must have brought them close to the cliffs. But still, having already committed to leaving the lovely roan at the meeting, his thickly feathered legs drug through the misted shrubs and his wings brushed against moist trunks as he meandered through the woods. His flared nostrils would intermittently catch a scent of the plains borne or his he would occasionally hear a rattle of bones that told him he was going in the generally right direction.
Strangely enough, the thought never crossed the vulture’s mind that the man might be running from him. His great hooves paused, bearded head rose, eyes peering through the murky evening light. They were farther from the cliffs, and the sound of running hooves had faded. Did he lose the small, striped man? Straining eyes narrow and ears tilt back; that had been a waste of time—
Click.
A grin crossed his starkly white face, pale ears perking forward out of mass of tangled, dark locks. His body shift, head craning to see around the thick trunk of a tree— and there he is. Two oddly colored eyes staring, wide in terror while his body was equally frozen in fright. The Korofi’s brows raise seeing the tremors shake the stripes, turning into a muddle of color, “Kalmeer, hiënajie,” his rough voice comes out easily and calmly.
His back leg cocks, wings loosely tucked into his sides. Any and all things are non-threatening about the man. Or as non-threatening as as feral, hulking Korofi stallion could appear. Though Gaal wasn’t predisposed to violence, thousands of years of breeding for it left his body shaped and marked for it. Mentally he searched for the Swahili tongue his father had taught him so long ago. He had rebelled against anything his harsh father had taught him, and thus his Plains-language was rusty at best, “Tulia fisi,” again he repeated the entreaty to calm them man, “Kwa nini hofukubwa?” His skull cocked, awaiting an answer.
Kalmeer hiënajie = calm yourself, little hyena
Tulia fisi= Calm hyena
Kwa nini hofukubwa?= Why big fear?
Strangely enough, the thought never crossed the vulture’s mind that the man might be running from him. His great hooves paused, bearded head rose, eyes peering through the murky evening light. They were farther from the cliffs, and the sound of running hooves had faded. Did he lose the small, striped man? Straining eyes narrow and ears tilt back; that had been a waste of time—
Click.
A grin crossed his starkly white face, pale ears perking forward out of mass of tangled, dark locks. His body shift, head craning to see around the thick trunk of a tree— and there he is. Two oddly colored eyes staring, wide in terror while his body was equally frozen in fright. The Korofi’s brows raise seeing the tremors shake the stripes, turning into a muddle of color, “Kalmeer, hiënajie,” his rough voice comes out easily and calmly.
His back leg cocks, wings loosely tucked into his sides. Any and all things are non-threatening about the man. Or as non-threatening as as feral, hulking Korofi stallion could appear. Though Gaal wasn’t predisposed to violence, thousands of years of breeding for it left his body shaped and marked for it. Mentally he searched for the Swahili tongue his father had taught him so long ago. He had rebelled against anything his harsh father had taught him, and thus his Plains-language was rusty at best, “Tulia fisi,” again he repeated the entreaty to calm them man, “Kwa nini hofukubwa?” His skull cocked, awaiting an answer.
Kalmeer hiënajie = calm yourself, little hyena
Tulia fisi= Calm hyena
Kwa nini hofukubwa?= Why big fear?
@Imani
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