Яikyn

The winged child drops down onto his ass at the sight of us (could they count as wings? I only now notice), something which makes my grumpy expression twitch ever so slightly, a smile trying to peck its way out despite my best efforts to seem uninterested. Despite the humor of the situation, I spoke first, and so I let the silence stretch while the colt stares back at me and Duir. Really, I should say I watch the two watch each other; Duir returns the child’s attention with his forest eyes twinkling, small hooves nearly moving beneath his youthful body in his anticipation for anything to happen next.

Having met Remy and Rexanna so soon after hatching has instilled in his head that all things are games, and that everyone we meet will be nice. That the boy is, well, a boy, makes the temptation all the greater, and so, when at last the colt moves into motion, Duir immediately follows suit. Leaping in his weird deer-travel fashion, he takes three massive bounds in comparison to the scampering of child’s hooves. Twirling, his tail picks up it’s seemingly impossibly fast pace as the colt whuffs and puffs about his fledgling antlers, and Duir’s ears twitch delightedly; occasionally, he tries to smell all over the boy, too, his damp, velvet nose likely bumping and nudging on accident.

It seems almost like they’ll do all the conversing (in weird, gesticulated silence) when the boy’s eyes move to me. There is something hard in them, something that makes my frown deepen and my head rise ever so slightly, wondering just what in the hell I could have done.

What? is the first thought, immediate, accusatory. The second is that, maybe, he wants to know what or who we are. Being a colt was so long ago, and I had never paid much attention to how being small felt, other than, well, small and weak, and useless. But, when I force myself now to remember meeting Kyst or Kirchoff, I find those questions that long ago had been answered, questions which had, once, bubbled from my lips as incessantly as rain from heavy clouds.

"His name is Duir," I begin, feeling seven kinds of weird while talking to some mute and most likely unrelated to me kid (by Moon’s Tits where is his mother?), "he is, uhm, err… well, I don’t really know what he is."

My brows fold down in self condemnation at not knowing what my own companion is (other than Duir, of course). One flick of my lion’s tail, however, and its almost like I never felt that way at all. I’m really good at bottling up and hiding things until its appropriate to feel that way, and I sure as hell am not going to feel stupid in front of some vagabond boy for any longer than I have to.

"One day he’ll have antlers instead of those nubs, though," I explain, while the young buck lifts his head proudly, as if envisioning the weight of such a proud crown adorning his head; we’ve passed a few of his kind, and he greatly admires their racks. Even now, the feeling of hope and interest surges through the bond, a feeling which is stamped down at the use of the word “nubs,” earning a reproachful glare from my young friend.

[ OOC: You're okay! He will be growing to 4.2 ft so he probably is around the same size/slightly taller, but I don't mind that much either way. :P Mostly excited to get to play with your new little one! ]

there's no place to hide down here