will you even notice
>"Oh, you poor thing," Farrow frowned deeply as the little bird cried out, ushering him into her hand. "Getting in all sorts of trouble today, hm?"
Once Aster found himself held again, it was as if the wound had disappeared. The soothing warmth of her hand was enough to assuage the pain to the point of him almost grateful for the wound since it brought him such instant comfort. As soon as she gave it to him, though, she took the warmth away and placed him on a less welcoming surface than the fluffy vine around her neck earlier. How he wished to flap into that vine again, though he was curious as to what she would do next.
>"I think I have come calendula oil somewhere." As she took her attention away from him, he decided to dramatize his condition as much as he could, indulging in this readily accessible motherly-like affection.
He shuffled the apron fabric in such a way, using his head and feet to nudge the cloth into a circle surrounding him. The pain in his side barely throbbing at this point. He then positioned himself, open wing, ready to receive whatever treatment she was to provide.
>"Perfect!" She came close to him, and procured a small bottle of honey-like liquid. Nectar? But in a see-through vessel instead of a flower?
Suddenly, hunger and the craving of one shown an enticing meal rumbled in his hummingbelly.
>"May I?" Farrow asked with a small gesture to the oil.
He sat straight up, abandoning his wounded-pose, and chirped up to the dropper, his beak attaching to the calendula oil that dripped all the way down his curved beak. The assault of bitter when he expected sweet, was enough to throw him into a sprawling tantrum.
He hacked and spat, flapping his wings against his face but he couldn't get the bitter taste out of his mouth. He rubbed his beak against the fabric of the apron, but the oil clung so well and it began to spread on his feathers.
As if he had hands, he tried again to curve his wings against his beak to get the oil off. Before he knew it, the idea of having hands caused him to grow. What was once a creature the size of a hand-grenade grew into a ballistic missile in front of the female's eyes. He shed his feathers to reveal silk-robed appendages, as he grew into a cross-legged twenty-year old with blonde hair and cerulean eyes still shut tight in response to the bitterness. The clothes he wore were thin yet durable, a dark forest with interwoven emerald hues akin to his bird form.
"Bitter! Bitter." He grabbed the apron that was now crumpled under him, and rubbed his tongue against the fabric, which itself did not taste any better. He would eventually open his eyes, once the taste was bearable enough.
Once Aster found himself held again, it was as if the wound had disappeared. The soothing warmth of her hand was enough to assuage the pain to the point of him almost grateful for the wound since it brought him such instant comfort. As soon as she gave it to him, though, she took the warmth away and placed him on a less welcoming surface than the fluffy vine around her neck earlier. How he wished to flap into that vine again, though he was curious as to what she would do next.
>"I think I have come calendula oil somewhere." As she took her attention away from him, he decided to dramatize his condition as much as he could, indulging in this readily accessible motherly-like affection.
He shuffled the apron fabric in such a way, using his head and feet to nudge the cloth into a circle surrounding him. The pain in his side barely throbbing at this point. He then positioned himself, open wing, ready to receive whatever treatment she was to provide.
>"Perfect!" She came close to him, and procured a small bottle of honey-like liquid. Nectar? But in a see-through vessel instead of a flower?
Suddenly, hunger and the craving of one shown an enticing meal rumbled in his hummingbelly.
>"May I?" Farrow asked with a small gesture to the oil.
He sat straight up, abandoning his wounded-pose, and chirped up to the dropper, his beak attaching to the calendula oil that dripped all the way down his curved beak. The assault of bitter when he expected sweet, was enough to throw him into a sprawling tantrum.
He hacked and spat, flapping his wings against his face but he couldn't get the bitter taste out of his mouth. He rubbed his beak against the fabric of the apron, but the oil clung so well and it began to spread on his feathers.
As if he had hands, he tried again to curve his wings against his beak to get the oil off. Before he knew it, the idea of having hands caused him to grow. What was once a creature the size of a hand-grenade grew into a ballistic missile in front of the female's eyes. He shed his feathers to reveal silk-robed appendages, as he grew into a cross-legged twenty-year old with blonde hair and cerulean eyes still shut tight in response to the bitterness. The clothes he wore were thin yet durable, a dark forest with interwoven emerald hues akin to his bird form.
"Bitter! Bitter." He grabbed the apron that was now crumpled under him, and rubbed his tongue against the fabric, which itself did not taste any better. He would eventually open his eyes, once the taste was bearable enough.
when I'm not around?
Aster
