Fern
Warm breeze blowing summer smell
Those Friday nights and stars up in the sky
Made me feel so damn alive
Those Friday nights and stars up in the sky
Made me feel so damn alive
The startled splay of the fox helps quell some of the pinching feeling of things she thought she understood no longer fitting together. Not because it smooths them out any better, but because the bird in her appreciates the defection of space and the hum of communication for dominance. Ordinarily she might find the ember fox positively adorable, but the Osprey of her judges the sharp teeth poking out from under her lips with far more reservation.
What does help assuage the wrinkles of her thoughts, is the admittance that Knell's Ancient mother also cannot, because that at least lines up with what Fern has experienced. Clicking her beak several times, as though tasting this new information thoroughly, Osprey!Fern's head tilts and her feathers slick down tight. Maybe...Ancient moms just cannot. A strange limitation, but then so is bed time.
As the sensation of confusion rolls out of her, squashed for the time being, her tail wags and her wings resettle at her sides with a quick flap. It's a little different from talking, Fern agrees, the timbre of thought a bit different from all the ways a throat works out the voice, although the emotion curling behind it still strings it up differently sometimes, and the curious creep of yellow that blooms behind it like sunlight darting from behind a mountain is unlike anything a voice could manage. You get used to it, though. As is the way of life, the girl is starting to find.
What does help assuage the wrinkles of her thoughts, is the admittance that Knell's Ancient mother also cannot, because that at least lines up with what Fern has experienced. Clicking her beak several times, as though tasting this new information thoroughly, Osprey!Fern's head tilts and her feathers slick down tight. Maybe...Ancient moms just cannot. A strange limitation, but then so is bed time.
As the sensation of confusion rolls out of her, squashed for the time being, her tail wags and her wings resettle at her sides with a quick flap. It's a little different from talking, Fern agrees, the timbre of thought a bit different from all the ways a throat works out the voice, although the emotion curling behind it still strings it up differently sometimes, and the curious creep of yellow that blooms behind it like sunlight darting from behind a mountain is unlike anything a voice could manage. You get used to it, though. As is the way of life, the girl is starting to find.
Didn't know that I had found the good times
We were happy as can be
Now it's just a memory that's faded
We were happy as can be
Now it's just a memory that's faded
