Username:
iBrevity
Name:
Blaise
Gender:
male
Gender for breeding purposes:
male
Item or companion:
From his mother Blaise inherited a little bird. He never cared much either way for the creature; his mother took care of the finch when he was a child, and he was too busy in adolescence to pay attention to its small, careful cheeps. It was only when his mother fell ill that Blaise was abruptly expected to look after the thing, to remember its name, to memorize what the little twitches of its feathers and wings might mean. Suddenly he had to figure out what sort of seeds it ate, what kind of fruit it would pick at, what flowers were okay and which ones made it sick. His mother, riddled with the same flu that had wiped out the majority of their pack, directed him as best she could from their shared den. She said, "Look after him, and he will always look after you."
Blaise stayed with her until she passed, a few days after she began coughing, and then he took the bird and his memories and he left. The little finch rode on his shoulder and tucked flowers into his mane and led him to water when he was dazed from the heat and the loneliness. He thought he remembered his mother calling him Agni, and so he called the bird the same, an ancient name that felt heavy on his tongue. The first time he used it Agni looked at him with such intensity that Blaise felt a quiver up his spine; but then the bird went back to catching and consuming bees, and Blaise forgot after a moment that odd sense of intelligence he'd gleaned from the sparrow's single look.
They remained together, even as Blaise forged new paths through foreign lands and traversed a mountain range that hardened the muscles of his legs and chest. They remained together through a winter, and a spring, and a summer and a fall and then for more seasons after that; and Blaise grew to adulthood, and he forgot some of where he had come from. In the mountains, in the woods, it seemed like they were the only two beings in the entire world.
He learned better how to care for himself, a skill he'd neglected as a teen, and he grew clever and quick and wary. He stayed in the mountains until a particularly bad winter drove him down; and then he lived in the woods beside a pack he would catch distant glimpses of, splashes of color among the trees, whispers of conversation winding between the trunks. He did not approach; he watched, and waited, and listened to the advice Agni offered, peeps between bites of bug and fruit. "They seem okay," he said, twitching his wings to settle his brilliant red feathers. "Safe, even."
"They hunt birds," Blaise replied, twisting his head to see Agni, a grin curling up his mouth. "Birds like you."
Agni harrumphed. "There are no birds like me," he said, and neatly tucked a daffodil into Blaise's mane.
[500/500]
Extra:
The first time Blaise realized what Agni was the bird saved his life. They were in the woods on the mountain; the sun was setting, and Blaise was squinting against the light that streamed through the trees. Agni was at his shoulder, as per usual, eating. Blaise saw the mountain lion out of the corner of his eye; he shifted, reared back, fought to get clearance in the breath of realizing what the limber feline shape meant. Blaise was tired and sore and hungry and he would be no match for it; and he processed this realization quietly. Agni fluttered from his back, displaced, and Blaise reached to shoo him, for at least he might survive this fight.
But then Agni began glowing, and his red feathers went gold, and he parted his little beak as though to chirp; and he breathed fire instead, a great hot belch, igniting the trees around them and prompting the cat to flee. He dropped to the ground the moment the predator departed, his feet and beak smoldering, his feathers poofed as though to expel heat; and he looked sidelong at Blaise with what could only a smug birdie smile, and said, "You're welcome."
[200/200]
iBrevity
Name:
Blaise
Gender:
male
Gender for breeding purposes:
male
Item or companion:
From his mother Blaise inherited a little bird. He never cared much either way for the creature; his mother took care of the finch when he was a child, and he was too busy in adolescence to pay attention to its small, careful cheeps. It was only when his mother fell ill that Blaise was abruptly expected to look after the thing, to remember its name, to memorize what the little twitches of its feathers and wings might mean. Suddenly he had to figure out what sort of seeds it ate, what kind of fruit it would pick at, what flowers were okay and which ones made it sick. His mother, riddled with the same flu that had wiped out the majority of their pack, directed him as best she could from their shared den. She said, "Look after him, and he will always look after you."
Blaise stayed with her until she passed, a few days after she began coughing, and then he took the bird and his memories and he left. The little finch rode on his shoulder and tucked flowers into his mane and led him to water when he was dazed from the heat and the loneliness. He thought he remembered his mother calling him Agni, and so he called the bird the same, an ancient name that felt heavy on his tongue. The first time he used it Agni looked at him with such intensity that Blaise felt a quiver up his spine; but then the bird went back to catching and consuming bees, and Blaise forgot after a moment that odd sense of intelligence he'd gleaned from the sparrow's single look.
They remained together, even as Blaise forged new paths through foreign lands and traversed a mountain range that hardened the muscles of his legs and chest. They remained together through a winter, and a spring, and a summer and a fall and then for more seasons after that; and Blaise grew to adulthood, and he forgot some of where he had come from. In the mountains, in the woods, it seemed like they were the only two beings in the entire world.
He learned better how to care for himself, a skill he'd neglected as a teen, and he grew clever and quick and wary. He stayed in the mountains until a particularly bad winter drove him down; and then he lived in the woods beside a pack he would catch distant glimpses of, splashes of color among the trees, whispers of conversation winding between the trunks. He did not approach; he watched, and waited, and listened to the advice Agni offered, peeps between bites of bug and fruit. "They seem okay," he said, twitching his wings to settle his brilliant red feathers. "Safe, even."
"They hunt birds," Blaise replied, twisting his head to see Agni, a grin curling up his mouth. "Birds like you."
Agni harrumphed. "There are no birds like me," he said, and neatly tucked a daffodil into Blaise's mane.
[500/500]
Extra:
The first time Blaise realized what Agni was the bird saved his life. They were in the woods on the mountain; the sun was setting, and Blaise was squinting against the light that streamed through the trees. Agni was at his shoulder, as per usual, eating. Blaise saw the mountain lion out of the corner of his eye; he shifted, reared back, fought to get clearance in the breath of realizing what the limber feline shape meant. Blaise was tired and sore and hungry and he would be no match for it; and he processed this realization quietly. Agni fluttered from his back, displaced, and Blaise reached to shoo him, for at least he might survive this fight.
But then Agni began glowing, and his red feathers went gold, and he parted his little beak as though to chirp; and he breathed fire instead, a great hot belch, igniting the trees around them and prompting the cat to flee. He dropped to the ground the moment the predator departed, his feet and beak smoldering, his feathers poofed as though to expel heat; and he looked sidelong at Blaise with what could only a smug birdie smile, and said, "You're welcome."
[200/200]
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