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06-03-2017, 07:15 PM
graasvoel
The vulture’s sharp gaze watched every movement, the bright gold of her eyes as they stretched and glanced side to side—it was comical, and brought an unbidden, lopsided grin to his muzzle. Her earnest, guileless gaze and movements and expression slowly eased his racing pulse. And, for a breathless moment, they both were frozen in place; staring at each other—
But then she was motion and life once again—brimming with it. “Oh! Hi Geen!” His great skull cocked slightly at the word she used for him…then again, it was the only thing he had said in the brief moments he had discovered her and her sister’s existence. Her sister. His hot eyes glance around for moments, but they cannot find the butterfly filly. And he cannot stand to look away from his hommelby for too long.
A part of his chest spasmed that she would call him ’No’, but another part of him was too enamored to correct her. And it was a reminder: “I won’t have them hurt.” He would not hurt her. Or her sister. He swore it.
But such serious thoughts were quite at odds with the effervescent chatter flowing from his daughter (a quiver ran through his thick, tawny hide at the word). And a grin crossed his muzzle as she exclaimed about puddles, “I do like puddles quite a lot, hommelby. Do you know why?” A mischievous gleam came through his yellow-and-red eyes, “Because they are perfect for—SPLASHING!” And on his exclamation, his great limbs struck into the warm, salty brine, sending a wall of water up at himself and at the little filly.
A deep, rumbling guffaw sounded from his barrel—any fear or anxiety forgotten in the face of childhood innocence. But it was simmering just beneath the surface, biding its time to resurface.
But then she was motion and life once again—brimming with it. “Oh! Hi Geen!” His great skull cocked slightly at the word she used for him…then again, it was the only thing he had said in the brief moments he had discovered her and her sister’s existence. Her sister. His hot eyes glance around for moments, but they cannot find the butterfly filly. And he cannot stand to look away from his hommelby for too long.
A part of his chest spasmed that she would call him ’No’, but another part of him was too enamored to correct her. And it was a reminder: “I won’t have them hurt.” He would not hurt her. Or her sister. He swore it.
But such serious thoughts were quite at odds with the effervescent chatter flowing from his daughter (a quiver ran through his thick, tawny hide at the word). And a grin crossed his muzzle as she exclaimed about puddles, “I do like puddles quite a lot, hommelby. Do you know why?” A mischievous gleam came through his yellow-and-red eyes, “Because they are perfect for—SPLASHING!” And on his exclamation, his great limbs struck into the warm, salty brine, sending a wall of water up at himself and at the little filly.
A deep, rumbling guffaw sounded from his barrel—any fear or anxiety forgotten in the face of childhood innocence. But it was simmering just beneath the surface, biding its time to resurface.
@Melita
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