Marduk is all hot air, and Riccin can watch as she processes their 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."
Riccin smiles. "You're fucking right," they say, pleased as punch, and they'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 Riccin feels 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.
They're expecting - who knows, some kind of attack. But all the kid does 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 with him, 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 their turn, because the kids standing in front of them, patient as a churchmouse, and Pheres is watching with the same loaded expectancy. Riccin shakes their head, lip curling. "No," they say flatly. There's no way they're going to let some paintsplattered gutterrat touch horns with them. That shit is weird.
Pheres tugs on their arm, and then, bracing his free hand against them, arches up. The way they duck their shoulder is instinct, and he immediately takes the opportunity to nestle his chin on it, so that his face inches from theirs.
His breath smells like cheap liquor, and they can feel the heat of his skin radiating even across the short distance. Psionics run hot, and the honeypill makes him feel damn near feverish, so that his very proximity is uncomfortable in the heat of the day. They should shrug him off.
"Bend down, please?" he asks, his voice breathy with amusement, and they're not going to shrug him off.
[NEW ICON NEEDED: 'oh no hes hot' 'literally AND metaphorically 8(']
"No," she says, each word like someone's pulling a fang, "I don't think they would."
Riccin smiles. "You're fucking right," they say, pleased as punch, and they'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 Riccin feels 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.
They're expecting - who knows, some kind of attack. But all the kid does 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 with him, 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 their turn, because the kids standing in front of them, patient as a churchmouse, and Pheres is watching with the same loaded expectancy. Riccin shakes their head, lip curling. "No," they say flatly. There's no way they're going to let some paintsplattered gutterrat touch horns with them. That shit is weird.
Pheres tugs on their arm, and then, bracing his free hand against them, arches up. The way they duck their shoulder is instinct, and he immediately takes the opportunity to nestle his chin on it, so that his face inches from theirs.
His breath smells like cheap liquor, and they can feel the heat of his skin radiating even across the short distance. Psionics run hot, and the honeypill makes him feel damn near feverish, so that his very proximity is uncomfortable in the heat of the day. They should shrug him off.
"Bend down, please?" he asks, his voice breathy with amusement, and they're not going to shrug him off.
They bend instead.