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09-02-2015, 10:36 AM
“Well... I could do with directions at least. I mean, I am looking for a home, but my home. The home I left. I’m uh... a little lost.”
A wide smile slides across my face as if we’ve met before and both know what an understatement a little lost is. It’s in good humor, but there’s embarrassment too. Pegasi are supposed to be fantastic navigators. We can fly obviously - get up among the clouds and see the world laid out below - but most importantly we’re feathered fliers. Half bird. And birds are renowned for their sense of direction, so I should have gotten at least half a measure of that right? No. Not at all.
“Oh, sorry. My name is Ruairi. Most people just say Rue. It’s nice to meet you.”
The main arms of my wings raise automatically, layers of primary and secondary feathers still tucked neatly together. It’s a common greeting and automatic to my mind, but where I’m from everyone has wings to return it… and Nyx does not.
The realization hits me with a jolt of mixed emotions. Embarrassment, awkwardness, social anxiety all rolled into one big acidic mess. It burns across my skin and clenches my wings tight to my shoulders as if dropping them quickly enough would erase having lifted them at all.
I’m not sure what’s considered polite and impolite among Helovians, but I’m hoping this kind of faux pas falls somewhere in the range of neutral indiscretion. Or maybe even youthful ignorance. Ugly tourism? I’d claim them all if it would make me look like less of an idiot. It suddenly seems very important that the older mare like me.
A wide smile slides across my face as if we’ve met before and both know what an understatement a little lost is. It’s in good humor, but there’s embarrassment too. Pegasi are supposed to be fantastic navigators. We can fly obviously - get up among the clouds and see the world laid out below - but most importantly we’re feathered fliers. Half bird. And birds are renowned for their sense of direction, so I should have gotten at least half a measure of that right? No. Not at all.
“Oh, sorry. My name is Ruairi. Most people just say Rue. It’s nice to meet you.”
The main arms of my wings raise automatically, layers of primary and secondary feathers still tucked neatly together. It’s a common greeting and automatic to my mind, but where I’m from everyone has wings to return it… and Nyx does not.
The realization hits me with a jolt of mixed emotions. Embarrassment, awkwardness, social anxiety all rolled into one big acidic mess. It burns across my skin and clenches my wings tight to my shoulders as if dropping them quickly enough would erase having lifted them at all.
I’m not sure what’s considered polite and impolite among Helovians, but I’m hoping this kind of faux pas falls somewhere in the range of neutral indiscretion. Or maybe even youthful ignorance. Ugly tourism? I’d claim them all if it would make me look like less of an idiot. It suddenly seems very important that the older mare like me.
RUAIRI
manip | table | bg
@Nyx
