The stripe-painted unicorn turns her crown toward me, and I feel relief when I see in her eyes the gaze of a friend. Her soft velvet muzzle extends toward my cheek, and I feel my body light up as she touches me. (Ok time-out. That's the first time I've been touched by a woman in ages and I don't care HOW platonic it is, holy CRAP. Hnnng, body.. body shhh. Shh FRIEND.) I whicker softly in response, a gentleness emanating from me that I didn't know what possible, nor did I expect in my wildest dreams. Even though I know she is only expressing a friendly greeting, I can't help myself. Pretending that nothing is happening within me, like no emotions have been stirred, I let her direct my gaze toward the jars on the counter.
I see the jar move easily through the air and feel my jaw open slightly in surprise. I was not aware that we could just.. move shit. I look down at the leather flask around my neck. Being able to move stuff into it with my mind would be a lot easier than stuffing it in there with my teeth. Huh. She removes a delicate looking flower and tells me it is a poppy. I extend my nose to sniff it, expecting to dedicate a smell to the memory. I pull my head back to look at the lady's face, but before I can make the complete turn a motion catches my eye. I snap my head around to look behind me, and see a small red fox running quickly from the room (perhaps into another? or maybe just far, far away from us crazy-looking folk). I glance at Weir. "Wonder what that was about...."
I turn away from the poppy. I'm still interested in what Weir has to teach me - not to mention she mentioned this being the Dusk Court and her home. (Caregiver?) There are many questions I have for her. But I'm distracted by the wildlife. I see something gleaming on the floor - a red stone, now as I approach. It glows softly, just barely, and has some strange marking on it that looks like a rune. I have no idea what it means, or why a fox would have a stone. I try out these mental powers that Weir has demonstrated, and to my great astonishment, the stone rises in the air, and I move it over to the counter where the jars are. It's too pretty to call a rock, but too simple to be a gem. I nose it - it's cold to the touch, scentless. "There is so much I don't know, Weir." I'm honest with her, more than I normally would like to be. Generally I don't enjoy admitting my faults, especially to a gal that gets my pulse thumbing.
"."
@Weir
