Яikyn

The only remark I earn for all my historical teachings is one from the beast, a snort kissing the air before his wings pull him up and away into the trees. I don’t bother watching him go, glad to see him leave – even more so when the tell tale sounds of screaming birds and crashing limbs alludes to more gluttonous eating on his behalf. My ears fall into a partial backward tilt, wondering to myself if the master is as untamed as his pet, believing the likelihood is high – he offers no word to my answer as to what the Qian is, though he does gain what could be suggested as the glower of thought.

I earn a chuckle as the conversation continues, however, and my ears pull forward at the friendly sound without a single thought as to how contradictory my moods towards him have been until this point. It seems normal for a child raised as myself to go from dislike, to distrust, to a lose knowledge of one another that is almost comfortable in the way of acquaintances or distant herd mates; what I know is that it will never branch past this loose respect of this young man, not unless he proves that he has an awareness of the world around him, as heightened as I view my own.

Magic, dragons, colloquial niceties, they mean next to nothing as I my eyes touch upon his bare brow. All they mean is that he is an equine, that he, and his kin, are consequences of too long outside of Godly influence, and though he has obviously returned to the divine gaze – I look again to his table – he is no less broken than those who had no such gifts.

I listen to his words distantly, with a glazed expression often found on the ponderous features of my sire. It makes sense that the magic would fade. It is not the craft of the Divine but one of a mortal. And yet, the thought that even stone would vanish over time makes me feel a strange sense of sadness, though surely I am no stranger to it. My father had to tinker endlessly on his projects lest their mechanical bits locked up, no longer alive; why should Volterra’s stone be any different?

I nod that I understand what he has said, still stolen by the weaving thoughts of magic and creation. Such ponderings still flood my mind as he turns the question towards me, a small moment (some numerous seconds) passing before I even register he’d said something to me.

"I do not know," I answer after some time, finding that I truly don’t - I’ve only today realized it’s a thing I can actually do, but another thought does cross my mind, one I voice aloud, "though I do get the oddest of sensations that to stay too long would cost me."

Cost me how? I’m not sure. I do know that, when I dwell upon memory of the magic, it feels as if my mind is inside their mind, as if my body is a distant isle, a tether linking me through the sea to the separate island of the other I use. I small fear trembles in me that if I lingered too long in another’s mind, that tether would snap. I would be left to swim endlessly in the sea.

It’s so negative and terrifying that I don’t continue with my verbal explanation to the moon faced boy. Besides, how weak would it make me seem to be afraid of my own power? I feel like a kitty cat on the inside when I realize it, now that the excitement of success has faded into the consequences of reality.

in every heart a hole