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I P O M O E A His statement is a simple one, an assertion of fact that almost anyone could have guessed on their own—and yet it told so very much about the grey-flecked stranger. For one, it branded him a Solterran, and suddenly the worn down, raggedy appearance and tired shoulders he boasted made sense. Solterra was a land which required strength and perseverance to live in—and Po, as a foal, had had neither. He hadn’t simply left, he’d been kicked out: first by his parents, who abandoned him, and then by the blacksmith who had taken him in. The desert had chewed him up and spit him out, the way it had to many others before and since him. But this man, despite his aging appearance, did not look like one to give up so easily. It also insinuated that the rain held at least some importance to the desert man. Others may have scoffed and cursed the rain, taking shelter from its invasive droplets. But he, this man of sand and sun, did not: he embraced it like an old friend, welcoming the water that rolled off his face and down his back. Ipomoea couldn’t help but wonder if he had left the desert simply to see the rain. He couldn’t blame him, Po was sure he would have done similarly (although, most likely to see the flowers and their colors rather than the rain, though he certainly did not mind the latter)—but talk about conflicting priorities. With a bit of a start, Ipomoea shook his head subtly to clear his mind. Had he truly gotten this good at reading people, that he could now do so subconsciously? In the time frame of a few seconds? Of course, there was the possibility that he was wrong, but he was not yet inclined to believe so. “It certainly never rained while I was there,” he offered, a dip of his head indicating his agreement. “The rain seems to prefer the west coast quite a bit.” He followed the Solterran’s gaze, remembering the bird hunched at the base of his neck. With a small smile, he arched his neck to puff a breath of hot air onto his companion before righting himself. “This is Odet. I found him last winter with a broken wing. He seems to have made himself right at home since.” As if in emphasis, the songbird puffed himself up to fill the little nest of hair and flowers he’d made for himself. “And I am Ipomoea. Well met.” His pale red eyes met the stranger’s dark ones, studying them curiously for the emotion they almost seemed to be lacking. “You’re a ways away from Solterra, Eik.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement, intentionally leaving the meaning open to interpretation. Although, Ipomoea wouldn't ming gleaning some happenstance information from the scarred stallion. @ |
neverrmind art
