graasvoel

The vulture continued to watch the delicate, troubled skoenlapper answered his questions. Vincent? Though the vulture had not spent much time getting to know the men of Helovia, he had not even heard that particular name in passing. So his brows raised in unsaid ignorance of the friend Myrrine spoke of—though his eyes remained hot and thoughtful on her hazel ones, still listening despite not knowing of whom she spoke.

That was, his face remained gentle and his eyes warm until she turned a question against him— “…has anyone simply left you? They never said a word and just disappeared, never to return?” His ears, instinctively, went flush back against his skull; he hadn’t been expecting such a question, nor the overwhelming emotions that accompanied it. Guilt. Hate. Shame. Sorrow. They swelled and crashed against the superficial thoughts of his mind, pounding against the thoughtless pleasure-seeking aims of his daily life, seeking to no longer be suppressed to the depths of his subconscious.

His gaze grew hard as it darted away from her soft hazels that gently glowed in the starlight. His jaw grew tense, his thick neck rigid. His life had been upturned by loss: the loss of his mother, of her love… the only love the stallion had known. A harsh breath pushed out of his nostrils as he remained silent for long moments, Myrrine filling in his tense silence with more of her blastedly gentle and curious questions: “Forgive me for coming off as rude, but why do you care what I'm upset about? Are you expecting something in return? …”

For few moments longer, still battling the swell of emotions within him, he remained silent—save for suddenly labored breaths that clung around his white muzzle in the cold night air. The man was unused to fighting his emotions—he was one to drift along with their impulses, wants, and needs. They were usually a source of pleasure—or, at least, lead to entertaining circumstances.

But now, they most certainly not. So his deep, rough voice was strained as he answered her first question of him, “They have.” It was a simple phrase, but so heavily laden with meaning that it seemed to speak volumes. Slowly, his hot eyes roved to hers, gaze sharp and nearly predatory as he answered her next question—it was wholly unlike the usual, unconcerned stallion, “It would be a useless lie to say I am not attracted to you, skoenlapper. You are beautiful and gentle—” he broke off, pausing as he watched the flutter of her lashes against her speckled cheek.

“I am a man who does not like to spend the night alone—but that does not mean I will not listen to your sorrows and then be off. But—” he paused once again, a ripple of expectation traveling through his swarthy coat, “If you do not wish for my company this evening, then I should fly.” And his massive wings began to spread their impressive span, his chest turning towards the heavens—but his eyes, their hot gaze remained on the delicate, spotted woman.

the vulture feeds while it can
until there's no trace left of man