Marduk is all hot air, and you can see as she processes your words and gradually deflates. It starts with the chin, and works its way down: her horns tuck in, her shoulders slump and her posture curls, until there's no sign of the shirty jadeblood, and she's just another defensive lowblood.
"No," she says, each word like someone's pulling a fang, "I don't think they would."
You smile. "You're fucking right," you say, pleased as punch, and you're going to say more, but then the tiny-ass kid hops out from behind her, and chirps: "We'll walk with you!"
The kid's dressed up like a punching bag at Carnival, horns slathered in white paint and wearing some shabby cloak that's got more holes than fabric. But they're all confidence and no hesitation. They stalk up to Pheres like they fucking know him, and you feel the pulse of active psionics before the kid even jumps. Their eyes are baseline flat, all cluckbeast yolk yellow and grub gray, but they're strong.
You're expecting - who knows, some kind of attack? That wouldn't make any sense, but nothing else does, either. All the kid does, though, is use them to boost themselves up to eye-level, and slap horns with him.
What the fuck?
Pheres acts like this is fucking normal: he actually laughs as the grub goes as far as to box snouts too, and there's a quick exchange of names and words before the kid drops back to the ground, knees bending like they were dropped.
And then, apparently, it's your turn, because the kid is standing in front of you, patient as a churchmouse, and Pheres is watching with the same loaded expectancy. You shake your head, lip curling.
There's no way you're going to let some paintsplattered gutterrat touch horns with you. This is some weird fucking lowblood shit that's happening, and you're not going to be a part of it.
Pheres tugs on your arm, and then, bracing his free hand against it, arches up. The way you duck your shoulder is instinct, and he immediately takes the opportunity to nestle his chin on it, so that his face inches from yours.
His breath smells like cheap liquor, and you can feel the heat of his skin radiating even across the short distance. Combined with the press of the sun above you, it is entirely too fucking much, and you really should shrug him off.
"Could - would you bend down?" he asks, his breath tickling the skin of your face. It's warm, and the way he's pressed against you, you can feel the hitch in his thoracic cage an instant before he laughs. "Please?"
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"No," she says, each word like someone's pulling a fang, "I don't think they would."
You smile. "You're fucking right," you say, pleased as punch, and you're going to say more, but then the tiny-ass kid hops out from behind her, and chirps: "We'll walk with you!"
The kid's dressed up like a punching bag at Carnival, horns slathered in white paint and wearing some shabby cloak that's got more holes than fabric. But they're all confidence and no hesitation. They stalk up to Pheres like they fucking know him, and you feel the pulse of active psionics before the kid even jumps. Their eyes are baseline flat, all cluckbeast yolk yellow and grub gray, but they're strong.
You're expecting - who knows, some kind of attack? That wouldn't make any sense, but nothing else does, either. All the kid does, though, is use them to boost themselves up to eye-level, and slap horns with him.
What the fuck?
Pheres acts like this is fucking normal: he actually laughs as the grub goes as far as to box snouts too, and there's a quick exchange of names and words before the kid drops back to the ground, knees bending like they were dropped.
And then, apparently, it's your turn, because the kid is standing in front of you, patient as a churchmouse, and Pheres is watching with the same loaded expectancy. You shake your head, lip curling.
There's no way you're going to let some paintsplattered gutterrat touch horns with you. This is some weird fucking lowblood shit that's happening, and you're not going to be a part of it.
Pheres tugs on your arm, and then, bracing his free hand against it, arches up. The way you duck your shoulder is instinct, and he immediately takes the opportunity to nestle his chin on it, so that his face inches from yours.
His breath smells like cheap liquor, and you can feel the heat of his skin radiating even across the short distance. Combined with the press of the sun above you, it is entirely too fucking much, and you really should shrug him off.
"Could - would you bend down?" he asks, his breath tickling the skin of your face. It's warm, and the way he's pressed against you, you can feel the hitch in his thoracic cage an instant before he laughs. "Please?"
You bend instead.