Callynite
The sudden silence of a forest is always the cause of concern. It can mean a predator is approaching, or a horrible storm. When it stills, then concern should act up. When you fail to hear the birds, the insects, small rodents . . . immediately head to another location where the world seems alive again . . . but the type of silence Cally was receiving from the forest was far worse than even that. She'd never been aware of how much she relied on it, the simple chatter of the trees to each other, or her. The silly compliments of the flowers or the cattiness of bramble. She never knew how much she let it fill up a silence that came from a more solitaire life she'd built for herself. She threw her heart and soul into her magical ability, bonding with the forest in a way that a druid might not usually do . . . and now, cut off from her magic, and the natural world . . . so much was catching Cally off-hoof. So much seemed wrong, too silent, too cold . . . . to lifeless.
The doe would have been warned prior, that one approached, a silent call from the forest and trees, the flowers and blades of grass (or at least she would hope this land would grow to be as treasured a companion as her last one, as to warn her of such things). In her home world, the forest would have chanted long before he'd have come into view, giving her plenty of time to choose to disappear among the foliage (and aiding her escape to obscure her presence if she did choose this path), or wait for the arrival of a stranger. The forest would have been poised to help, to assist her in anyway, constantly whispering reassurances, or warning, or alerting her to other issues. Mindless chatter, advise and companionship from vegetation - but it was constant and now it was gone.
So the buck . . . sorry, stallion . . . had alarmed her as she spun around, instinct and years of travel and practice had her form flowing as she spun to face him, her steps light and bouncy - as was the nature of the deer she had been, and still partially was. But her steps where less of a playful dance, and closer to that of a war dance,, a bow rising with magic, the stone edge of her arrow locked onto him with out even considering that the one surprising her might be friend. This was a foreign land, and she hadn't met too many yet in it. She stared at him, as he seems to take in the arrow, his eyes slowly lifting from the arrowhead to her, and then . . . he smiles.
The doe is slowly relaxing though, cataloging all around her, and making note of his comfort level in the lands, the way he handles himself at the business end of a primed and ready bow. His scent that smells of the land. It all is silently adding up to the stranger being far less likely to be a foe, and more than likely to be a potential friend. Slowly the bow is lowered, the arrow tucked back away, but even lowered the bow is ready to be used again at a moment's notice, and she'd showed once how quick she was in lifting and lining it up - notched and primed. She might be a dainty doe, but she was growing in her fierceness. Her hesitation in firing at others and defending herself was lessening by the day. Now, it didn't bother her to imagine truly raising it in a fight.
He speaks then, however, commenting that it's alright and not the first time a bow had been drawn upon himself. She glanced to the side when he spoke of announcing himself, and she shook her head, "No, I should have been far more aware of my surroundings . . . I'm usually more aware of my surroundings." She made a mental note to her list of skills to work on, that she needed to make sure she was better aware, to make up for the lack of what her magic once helped to cover. He then provides her with some interesting information about terms that horses use, and her two sets of ears immediately shift forward in interest (even as a second later, the second set is aiming around them to pick up any low rustling sounds of others that might be approaching silently - least she be surprised again.
Foals, fillies are females, colts are males. What on earth - why would they have different names? "That just seems silly! Why do you use different terms for your doe-fawns and buck-fawns." She pauses then, thinking about her own terms, suddenly realizing the was kind of what she did, wasn't it. Naming the gender of the fawn in the elongated title. But still - three different words to describe a babe seemed a bit much. She shook her head with a heavy sigh, "I'm never going to figure out all that terminology thing." She declared with a huff of air, breathed out slowly from her nose, less like a snort of a horse and more like the sigh of a deer. She might look like a mix-breed, but her actions spoke of what her original form had been, had another been aware of her . . . identity crisis.
The male spoke again, his name being given. She pauses, thinking it over. It sounded vaguely familiar, but she imagined she'd just heard a similar one in passing somewhere. She'd certainly never met him. She did dip her domed head towards him slightly, her head angled just so, so that the straight unicorn horn wouldn't be perceived as a threat, but the flash of doe-antlers between her ears were visible rather than hidden among the long, and rather messy and thick mane she possessed. The pleasure is mine . . . Ipomoea." She says his name slowly, cautiously, carefully copying the way he pronounced it so as to not misspeak it. His next words seemed to be set up as a question, but felt more like a statement, and the doe tilted her head, a sassy smile crossing her features for a moment.
"Yes, quite new. What was your first hint?" She asked, her eyes dancing for a moment in amusement over the statement. "I think it's been . . . a moon cycle and a half since I found myself in Novus." She's quiet for a moment, her gaze turning inwardly as she seemed to catalog her time, before nodding, "Yes, that sounds about right." She stated calmly, before glancing around the land, "But I'm still getting used to . . . this place." And the quiet of the forest, the silence that made her feel so uncomfortable and alone, and blind and deaf to her own internal magic that clawed at the cage that the magic of Novus had placed it in upon her arrival. Where once her magic would have risen up in a sea of familiar warmth and love, it was caged away until whatever power that be felt she was ready for it once more. That time couldn't come soon enough for the druid deer.
"Speech"
@Ipomoea
The doe would have been warned prior, that one approached, a silent call from the forest and trees, the flowers and blades of grass (or at least she would hope this land would grow to be as treasured a companion as her last one, as to warn her of such things). In her home world, the forest would have chanted long before he'd have come into view, giving her plenty of time to choose to disappear among the foliage (and aiding her escape to obscure her presence if she did choose this path), or wait for the arrival of a stranger. The forest would have been poised to help, to assist her in anyway, constantly whispering reassurances, or warning, or alerting her to other issues. Mindless chatter, advise and companionship from vegetation - but it was constant and now it was gone.
So the buck . . . sorry, stallion . . . had alarmed her as she spun around, instinct and years of travel and practice had her form flowing as she spun to face him, her steps light and bouncy - as was the nature of the deer she had been, and still partially was. But her steps where less of a playful dance, and closer to that of a war dance,, a bow rising with magic, the stone edge of her arrow locked onto him with out even considering that the one surprising her might be friend. This was a foreign land, and she hadn't met too many yet in it. She stared at him, as he seems to take in the arrow, his eyes slowly lifting from the arrowhead to her, and then . . . he smiles.
The doe is slowly relaxing though, cataloging all around her, and making note of his comfort level in the lands, the way he handles himself at the business end of a primed and ready bow. His scent that smells of the land. It all is silently adding up to the stranger being far less likely to be a foe, and more than likely to be a potential friend. Slowly the bow is lowered, the arrow tucked back away, but even lowered the bow is ready to be used again at a moment's notice, and she'd showed once how quick she was in lifting and lining it up - notched and primed. She might be a dainty doe, but she was growing in her fierceness. Her hesitation in firing at others and defending herself was lessening by the day. Now, it didn't bother her to imagine truly raising it in a fight.
He speaks then, however, commenting that it's alright and not the first time a bow had been drawn upon himself. She glanced to the side when he spoke of announcing himself, and she shook her head, "No, I should have been far more aware of my surroundings . . . I'm usually more aware of my surroundings." She made a mental note to her list of skills to work on, that she needed to make sure she was better aware, to make up for the lack of what her magic once helped to cover. He then provides her with some interesting information about terms that horses use, and her two sets of ears immediately shift forward in interest (even as a second later, the second set is aiming around them to pick up any low rustling sounds of others that might be approaching silently - least she be surprised again.
Foals, fillies are females, colts are males. What on earth - why would they have different names? "That just seems silly! Why do you use different terms for your doe-fawns and buck-fawns." She pauses then, thinking about her own terms, suddenly realizing the was kind of what she did, wasn't it. Naming the gender of the fawn in the elongated title. But still - three different words to describe a babe seemed a bit much. She shook her head with a heavy sigh, "I'm never going to figure out all that terminology thing." She declared with a huff of air, breathed out slowly from her nose, less like a snort of a horse and more like the sigh of a deer. She might look like a mix-breed, but her actions spoke of what her original form had been, had another been aware of her . . . identity crisis.
The male spoke again, his name being given. She pauses, thinking it over. It sounded vaguely familiar, but she imagined she'd just heard a similar one in passing somewhere. She'd certainly never met him. She did dip her domed head towards him slightly, her head angled just so, so that the straight unicorn horn wouldn't be perceived as a threat, but the flash of doe-antlers between her ears were visible rather than hidden among the long, and rather messy and thick mane she possessed. The pleasure is mine . . . Ipomoea." She says his name slowly, cautiously, carefully copying the way he pronounced it so as to not misspeak it. His next words seemed to be set up as a question, but felt more like a statement, and the doe tilted her head, a sassy smile crossing her features for a moment.
"Yes, quite new. What was your first hint?" She asked, her eyes dancing for a moment in amusement over the statement. "I think it's been . . . a moon cycle and a half since I found myself in Novus." She's quiet for a moment, her gaze turning inwardly as she seemed to catalog her time, before nodding, "Yes, that sounds about right." She stated calmly, before glancing around the land, "But I'm still getting used to . . . this place." And the quiet of the forest, the silence that made her feel so uncomfortable and alone, and blind and deaf to her own internal magic that clawed at the cage that the magic of Novus had placed it in upon her arrival. Where once her magic would have risen up in a sea of familiar warmth and love, it was caged away until whatever power that be felt she was ready for it once more. That time couldn't come soon enough for the druid deer.
"Speech"
@Ipomoea
