He turns his own gaze skyward, the smile light and jovial across his lips. “I have not,” he confesses, leaning towards his new friend in easy companionship. “But I’m sure he isn’t far, if you stay you may just see him again.” The offer is subtle, as though to Po it would only make sense that she would stay in the Court of the rising sun for some time. Truly, he would not be disappointed if she did—and he would not have expected anyone to disagree.
The brooding stallion’s presence lingers in the back of his mind, a confusion he hesitates to address. It’s a demeanor he doesn’t quite recognize, a hostility he hasn’t yet encountered in his first few years of life, and it puts a sickly feeling right at the base of his withers, a discomfort he wishes to shake. Florentine’s reaction to the chestnut’s appearance does nothing to reassure him, in fact it has the opposite effect; if the girl of wings and flowers and smiles loses her charm at the mere sight of him, what good could come from his arrival? But Ipomoea is ever the optimist, ever the inclusive type, even if the many signals he’s given from both Florentine and Charlemagne seem to scream otherwise. “I’ve not seen you before,” he says tentatively, but not meanly, in the direction of the horned man. “Have you come to watch the sunrise, too?” He wonders briefly if he visits the Court with Florentine, but the wondering is quickly dismissed. They certainly do not appear to be friends, much less traveling companions, if the dun girl’s curt words and abrupt frown were any hints to him.
The mention of books causes Po’s ears to perk, his avian friends head lifting slightly from his crown of feathers in interest. He wants to ask what kind of books, their subject, their length, their language—but this seems to be a dialogue meant for the man and woman and they alone, and he doesn’t wish to intrude any more than he already has.
The Delumine Sovereign appears then, and seems to save Po from his discomfort, sure and purposeful in his stride, his presence filling the courtyard at once. Ipomoea’s smile returns, wide and loud as always, as he takes a step and inclines his head in respect for the pegasus. Again, Kasil addresses him by name, and Po feels a flutter of joy in his chest, one he struggles to push back down before he makes a fool of himself.
“I do!” he exclaims, forgetting momentarily that the morning is meant to be quiet, to be still, that he should reflect it. He corrects himself: “I do. Her name is Florentine, and I call her my friend.” He casts his cerise eyes to the winged girl, his smile more tentative as he makes that assumption, hoping she would agree. He nods as she speaks, validating her story with himself as witness. “I hope our Court is as splendid as our forests?”
@Florentine @kasil @charlemagne
The brooding stallion’s presence lingers in the back of his mind, a confusion he hesitates to address. It’s a demeanor he doesn’t quite recognize, a hostility he hasn’t yet encountered in his first few years of life, and it puts a sickly feeling right at the base of his withers, a discomfort he wishes to shake. Florentine’s reaction to the chestnut’s appearance does nothing to reassure him, in fact it has the opposite effect; if the girl of wings and flowers and smiles loses her charm at the mere sight of him, what good could come from his arrival? But Ipomoea is ever the optimist, ever the inclusive type, even if the many signals he’s given from both Florentine and Charlemagne seem to scream otherwise. “I’ve not seen you before,” he says tentatively, but not meanly, in the direction of the horned man. “Have you come to watch the sunrise, too?” He wonders briefly if he visits the Court with Florentine, but the wondering is quickly dismissed. They certainly do not appear to be friends, much less traveling companions, if the dun girl’s curt words and abrupt frown were any hints to him.
The mention of books causes Po’s ears to perk, his avian friends head lifting slightly from his crown of feathers in interest. He wants to ask what kind of books, their subject, their length, their language—but this seems to be a dialogue meant for the man and woman and they alone, and he doesn’t wish to intrude any more than he already has.
The Delumine Sovereign appears then, and seems to save Po from his discomfort, sure and purposeful in his stride, his presence filling the courtyard at once. Ipomoea’s smile returns, wide and loud as always, as he takes a step and inclines his head in respect for the pegasus. Again, Kasil addresses him by name, and Po feels a flutter of joy in his chest, one he struggles to push back down before he makes a fool of himself.
“I do!” he exclaims, forgetting momentarily that the morning is meant to be quiet, to be still, that he should reflect it. He corrects himself: “I do. Her name is Florentine, and I call her my friend.” He casts his cerise eyes to the winged girl, his smile more tentative as he makes that assumption, hoping she would agree. He nods as she speaks, validating her story with himself as witness. “I hope our Court is as splendid as our forests?”
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manip by rhiann
