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Albrecht The old black isn’t sure what to make of the smaller stallion’s mannerisms: how he pauses and tilts his head to one side like a curious newborn, green eyes mirroring mixed emotions between them. He stares back expectantly, waiting for the usual anger and denial, but neither come. The younger stallion’s expression seems to soften and his words land so gently that Albrecht wonders if he hasn’t inspired pity instead of deeper thought, but a flush of relief belies his apprehension. Mild irritation follows. He has no stake in whether the candied stallion is a decent soul or not and shouldn’t be bothered one way or the other, but he admits (to himself at least) that he’s glad the little guy isn’t all appearances. That lonely sliver of character wasting away within his breast chokes in another breath. "You never get what you put in Candy-Man.” He’s living proof of that, but the Peppermint-Pony is already stepping away, vanishing momentarily into the dark of his crafting stash. Surprise flashes unguarded across the black’s features as the Weaver lays a bundle of something loose and fluffy between them. Was he really…? The loose fibers straighten and twine together seemingly of their own accord, but the crafters look of utter concentration proves his part in the magic. When he’s done a thick woolen scarf lies between them. Albrecht reaches out to nose at the material, but finds a tiny ruby hoof blocking the way. Of course there are conditions. He snorts unhappily, purses his lips, and looks every bit the uncooperative curmudgeon, but still the Weaver stares at him expectantly and still the chill of winter pricks his skin. "Fiiiiiiiine.” Begrudgingly, gustily, dramatically. "Just tell me when it happens.” That's as close to acquiescence as anyone is getting. Eat a Dick |
@Johnny
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