Black Feathered Familiarity - Social, Closed
May 15, 2024 23:32:27 GMT -5
Post by Rena Brighteyes on May 15, 2024 23:32:27 GMT -5
Whistle trills softly to herself, ruby eyes glittering as she glances around, taking in every little detail of this little town. More than once the little crow glances back at her mother, envious of the wings she and her siblings somehow lack. She wishes she could fly. Wishes she could weave magic, even just a little bit. But such things aren’t in her cards, nor those of any of her siblings. It’s a property of Mom’s Curse that allows her to mold the world around her, the simple fact of her clan-heirness that grants Mom her wings. And Mom has no intention to pass on either curse or title, so it’s unlikely that any of them will get the perks of either. Ah, well. It’s nice to dream.
Wind trills softly to himself, humming and idly examining one of his bolts. it hasn’t been loaded or fired recently, so it lacks the frosty filigree that usually adorns his projectiles. Still, he can’t help but be fascinated by the faint marks the magic has left, barely visible filigree of a different shade from the wood around it…
Loci is bored. bored bored bored bored. there’s nothing for him to do, noone for him to protect his family against, and it’s much too damp for either sketchbook or fiction, so he’d had to leave his stuff back home. All that, combined with the fact that there’s just enough stuff going on around him for it not to be safe to retreat into his own head means he’s bored.
Wind trills happily, darting around the town, her eye lights an array of glittering stars as she drinks in everything she can - the people, the animals, the buildings, the sound and smell and sight of it all…
Bell smiles softly, the specter gently scooping Loci into his arms and holding the anxious, bored little skeleton close with a happy chirp.
Rena whistles softly to her family, her eyes shining a gentle silver as she moves across the muddy ground with unnatural grace and silent steps, those silver eyes casting about for something, anything of interest. And then she spots it. A flutter of black feathers, the tail end of a cloak, a tarnished button briefly visible as it disappears behind a corner, barely more than a glimpse, the crow unable to get even a glance at the cloak’s bearer. But she knows. In this instant, she knows that she and her husband are no longer alone, no longer the only survivors of Fimbulwinter.
So she breaks into a run, darting desperately after that tantalizing hem of feathers, the greeting call of her clan escaping her throat before she can even stop to consider that the cloak might not belong to one of her clan anymore...
Wind trills softly to himself, humming and idly examining one of his bolts. it hasn’t been loaded or fired recently, so it lacks the frosty filigree that usually adorns his projectiles. Still, he can’t help but be fascinated by the faint marks the magic has left, barely visible filigree of a different shade from the wood around it…
Loci is bored. bored bored bored bored. there’s nothing for him to do, noone for him to protect his family against, and it’s much too damp for either sketchbook or fiction, so he’d had to leave his stuff back home. All that, combined with the fact that there’s just enough stuff going on around him for it not to be safe to retreat into his own head means he’s bored.
Wind trills happily, darting around the town, her eye lights an array of glittering stars as she drinks in everything she can - the people, the animals, the buildings, the sound and smell and sight of it all…
Bell smiles softly, the specter gently scooping Loci into his arms and holding the anxious, bored little skeleton close with a happy chirp.
Rena whistles softly to her family, her eyes shining a gentle silver as she moves across the muddy ground with unnatural grace and silent steps, those silver eyes casting about for something, anything of interest. And then she spots it. A flutter of black feathers, the tail end of a cloak, a tarnished button briefly visible as it disappears behind a corner, barely more than a glimpse, the crow unable to get even a glance at the cloak’s bearer. But she knows. In this instant, she knows that she and her husband are no longer alone, no longer the only survivors of Fimbulwinter.
So she breaks into a run, darting desperately after that tantalizing hem of feathers, the greeting call of her clan escaping her throat before she can even stop to consider that the cloak might not belong to one of her clan anymore...