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graasvoel
Pale ears that had tilted askew at the sudden uncertainty and apprehension which flooded his chest, barrel, and mind snap forward at his little bee’s simple, innocent, and candid question.
“Did I scare you?”
The smallest of grins chased away the unease that had robbed the vulture of his lighthearted playfulness. The notion of a small, effervescent girl armed with the ferocity of small, saltwater splashes scaring the hulking, massive vulture of a man struck some amused cord in the great stallion. And so his small grin grew in to a large one, and eventually in a rumbling guffaw.
“No, no, hommelby,” his rough voice managed between rolls of laughter, “You did not scare me. I…” he trailed off, wondering how to explain…whatever it was that was happening with him. Did he even need to explain it to a child? Did adults explain things to children? Did fathers? His father had explained many things about battle, about weapon making, about the many royal houses in Bahari. But never had he explained his actions—the reason he fucked whores and left his bastard son to his bitter, vengeful mother’s care.
So the vulture decided that no, he did not need to fully explain himself to those bright, questioning, confused golden eyes framed with thick lashes. Instead, he simply said, “I was thinking of something else. But tell me, little one, has anyone taught you to fly?” He knew that her mother was wingless, so she would be unable. But he wondered if any otherproper sire in the hot, sandy south had took it upon themselves to teach this filly (his daughter) how to use her wings.
His hot gaze went to the lightly feathered appendages in question—they were so similar to his own; and this similarity sent an unknown (but happy) thrill through his chest. Pride—it was pride.
“Did I scare you?”
The smallest of grins chased away the unease that had robbed the vulture of his lighthearted playfulness. The notion of a small, effervescent girl armed with the ferocity of small, saltwater splashes scaring the hulking, massive vulture of a man struck some amused cord in the great stallion. And so his small grin grew in to a large one, and eventually in a rumbling guffaw.
“No, no, hommelby,” his rough voice managed between rolls of laughter, “You did not scare me. I…” he trailed off, wondering how to explain…whatever it was that was happening with him. Did he even need to explain it to a child? Did adults explain things to children? Did fathers? His father had explained many things about battle, about weapon making, about the many royal houses in Bahari. But never had he explained his actions—the reason he fucked whores and left his bastard son to his bitter, vengeful mother’s care.
So the vulture decided that no, he did not need to fully explain himself to those bright, questioning, confused golden eyes framed with thick lashes. Instead, he simply said, “I was thinking of something else. But tell me, little one, has anyone taught you to fly?” He knew that her mother was wingless, so she would be unable. But he wondered if any other
His hot gaze went to the lightly feathered appendages in question—they were so similar to his own; and this similarity sent an unknown (but happy) thrill through his chest. Pride—it was pride.
@Melita
Please tag Graasvoel in all posts.
