ArchivedLogs:Egg
| Egg | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | |
| In Absentia
|
2015-01-02 gargoyle-bat-hybrid-spawn |
| Location
<NYC> {Birdhaus} - Harbor Commons - Lower East Side | |
Inside the airy expanse of Birdhaus there is a whole lot of fluttering currently going on. A few downy-soft feathers fallen to the floor in Horus's hasty flapping-about. A /lot/ of squawking. Quick and unhappy. And, nestled comfortably in the center of one large pillowy beanbag, a camera bag that contains one very large grey leathery egg. Currently cracked down one side. Horus, seated now on a perch somewhere above and to the right of Egg, is watching it with great trepidation. He flies back down. Plucks a few more feathers loose and /tucks/ them into the camera bag. Like a peace offering? Like he'll make Egg more comfortable? He lays one long silver (he is currently /very/ shiny, his feathers all given a metallic glossy /sheen/ like he's been dipped in silver plating -- though the coloring retains his normal /patterning/ in shades of lighter and darker silver, thanks to Tag's very excellent paint-job) feather carefully atop the crack in Egg. Like he's trying to hide it. Or bandage it. "Oh, fuck goddamnit where the hell is my fob?!" The string of inquisitive and frustrated expletives announces the arrival of one staggering (and prodigal) musician returned home to find himself locked out. Ryan fumbles to no avail through his coat pockets and jeans, muttering under his breath only to resign and flail, rapping his fist against the door. To further identify himself, a pulse of nervous anxiety penetrates the door into the apartment, a wide tidal wave of emotion immersing Horus and //tugging//. *KNOCKKNOCKKNOCK* "LET ME IN. I LOST MY KEYFOB." A beat skips. "AUGH." The egg lurches--slightly--as though tapped by a hidden hand, and the crack grows a few inches, no longer hidden behind the lovely silver feather. Another lurch, more noticeable this time, and the crack begins to fork, like a bolt of lightening in slow motion. A faint scrabbling noise issues from the crevice, though it has not widened enough to reveal the shell's contents. The empathic nervous energy makes Horus's fluttering a bit more agitated. He reaches over with his large beak to grab at a brightly fluffy Tribble-bot sitting nearby, tucking that in next to the egg as well. Then another downy soft feather. He flits over to the door rapidly, headbutting the automatic door-opening button before returning to the Egg's side. From /him/ there is a bundle of nerves, too, felt through his stream of rapidfire twittering once Ryan is in. Panic, panic, /help/, oh no, what to /do/. He tucks one of the shiny feathers a little closer to the growing crack in the egg. "Heeeeeeeeeeelp," Ryan drawls butting his head against the door and leaning his arms against it //just// as Horus grants him access. Which sends him almost tripping into the apartment. Almost! Fortuitously, agile reflexes succeed as he hobbles further in and regains his balance, gyrating arms stabilizing once he rights himself. Sniffing proudly, he cracks a grin, all teeth as he starts to divest his outerwear, flinging off his hat and scarf and trench coat in a trail of clothes. Those articles removed, therein lies the evidence of his debauched holiday adventures: his velvet blazer has no buttons, his white dress shirt lacks the bowtie pictured in media photos documenting his fresh appearance, disheveled wrinkles and stains now evident. His jeans are torn, and not //stylishly// either, and the reeking odor of booze and some begins to permeate the closer he gets to Horus and the Egg. None of this occupies //his// attention however; his eyes are FIXED on the leathery ovoid in its improvised beanbag nest. He even ignores Horus to an extent, except for the arm he drops on his shoulder and the slight calm accompanying his voice (contrary to the actual panicked tone of it): "Hoooooooly shit it's an egg, Horus. What the flipping fuck are we supposed to do?" He's here on a whim; clearly there was better help to be hailed in this situation. The egg jerks to one side, and might have rolled away if not so carefully nestled. The crack extends /abruptly/, traveling three-quarters of the way around the shell and forking yet again. It has gotten wider, too, exposing a pearly gray membrane. A tiny, curved black talon slices through the membrane, latching on to the edge of the crack. The noise from inside grows louder, as does the initially faint feeling of /hunger./ The widening crack draws a louder squawk from Horus, his agitated feelings growing. He quivers under Ryan's hand, wings shivering as he presses closer to his roommate, though the calming influence takes the edge off the shaking. His head dips to pick up his stylus so that he can swipe out a message on the tablet strapped around his neck, its monotonous robot voice speaking up for him. 'I was sitting sitting sitting sitting I am bird best eggsitter I was a good eggsitter then I broke it we should return it,' he decides, 'but what if we can't return it now now it is broken maybe they won't take a broken egg.' After a pause: 'Don't know who to return it to. Isra Egg Dusk Egg Shane Egg Jax Egg Micah Egg B Egg where do we put it help.' And after another pause: 'You still smell drunk.' He scoots forward closer after this. Nudging at the Tribble to settle it closer to the talon. 'Bird!' Ryan proceeds to snake an arm across //both// shoulders and reel Horus in as he pressed forward, bending at the knee to conduct a very thorough, //reverent// inspection of the wobble-wobbling egg as more fissures spread out along its surface. Arching his brows to frame the bewildered fascination of his gaze, his mouth drops, a tentative left arm raised, dropped, then raised against, digits curl into a fist to live a single index finger pointed. But he doesn't touch! Not yet, as he tears his attention away to stare at Horus while his robotic proxy vocalizes for him. "Uh, dude. You're //too// good an eggsitter. You didn't //break// the egg, you //incubated it//. It's ... hatching. Do we give it bread or blood? What does Isra eat? Where are Jax and Micah? I...why did I come?" Much of his refrain is //clealry// rhetorical, drunken rambling as he pushes his weight onto Horus, kind of desperate and pathetic, but empathically //assuaging// nonetheless: "It's hungry." So perceptive. "Can we feed it music?" Even as he blurts out his stream of consciousness, the rockstar doesn't wait to try: his drunken logic urges him to break out into lullaby. Or nursery rhyme. "Humpty dumpty had a great fall..." The egg rocks hard enough to dislodge the tribble tucked down beside it. More talons poke through the crack, scratching and prying. However, the shell appears quite resilient despite the damage to it. The wave of hunger swells, edged with frustration. It moves almost continuously now, and intermittently issues a muffled series of /clicks./ 'Oh!' For a moment Horus actually /preens/. Chest puffing out, feathers ruffling up. 'Good good good I am good eggsit oh no oh no oh no Ryan I made a person help bad idea why did I make a person I don't know how to person.' He wobble-tips back into Ryan, not drunk but maybe influenced by the wobbling Egg, the wobbling Roommate. Thunk, his head bops down against Ryan's shoulder. 'I texted you came.' He gives Ryan's other questions a moment of thought before /very/ abruptly backing /away/ to answer. Waaaarily: 'Isra eats Horuses. Eats me up I know this answer.' Though after this he is scooting back close to the egg, one large eye peering at it intently as he tips his head forward to bop /head/ lightly against eggshell. 'I texted. Joshua. Says JaxMicah are coming. CAN we feed it music? Try harder. Sing food songs.' He is watching the Egg's movements with a growing uncertainty, after a pause reaching out his large beak to -- click back? Taptaptap peck, widening the CRACK in an attempt to help. "//I// don't know how to person," Ryan slurs in commiserating defeat after his initial musical attempt reaches its end, retracting his arm from around Horus to glance behind him, searching the kitchen. "Oven mitts! And a ... towel! We have to //deliver// it I think I don't know. I'll swaddle and maybe you, um, chisel? I think it needs help." With a course of action resolved, confidence rings through, a triumphant boost of uplifting optimism emanating from him as he pivots to gather his supplies. "Isra is not going to eat you," he assures, now rummaging. "Wait!" It's a SQUEAK. "Don't do that until we're all ready, Horus!" He begins to belt out 'hush little baby' in a soothing effort to LULL the Egg and buy precious time before its contents breaks free. There's a quiet click of lock at the front door; Jax /has/ a key to Birdhaus and just goes ahead and lets himself in, not pausing to shed his shoes by the door as he hurries inside. "-- Horus? Sweetie, y'aright -- oh gosh /Ryan/ when'd you get in." Even though the concern from him is strong, worry (and stress and uncertainty and /ahhhh/) rolling off him in waves, he stops to stoop and give Ryan a big squeeze of hug from behind. ... and then. Kind of. Just /stare/. At the cracking egg in the beanbag. "Oh. /Oh/. ... oh." At least it isn't a /far/ run from Lighthaus to Birdhaus, seeing as Micah is without his running foot to more than lope-jog the distance. Signs of rushing are clear in one shoe coming untied, a lack of hat, and his coat unzipped over layered Batsignal hoodie, Doctor Hooves tee, and jeans. There /is/ a handy first aid bag slung over one arm, at least. He hurries in behind Jax, stopping just long enough to close the door behind them. "Horus?" Skid-halt, there by the bag-with-egg. He doesn't quite make it to greetings, mental gears turning on what to /do/ instead. "Ohgosh. We never made it t'Isra's appointment. That's a hatchin'... Don't...crack the shell for it, sugar. I mean. I dunno. But if it's like chicks, you're just s'posed t'let 'em break it themselves." He chews at his lower lip, kneeling beside the egg and just /watching/ it. "Prob'ly we should have some towels? An' a blanket. An' water. I have no idea what t'...food. Is Isra comin'?" The shaking of the egg intensifies, the little claws quivering and reaching as Horus draws near. The shell is tough and a little flexible, but it finally gives way beneath his beak. Little black claws converge on the gap the creates and push outward. The crack expands at first only a little, until abruptly a section of the shell breaks away, several square inches in area. One gnarled, taloned limb tears through the membrane, dark gray and glistening wet. The sense of hungry sharpens, /focuses,/ gains a hint of excitement. An angular face follows it-- eyes huge and bulging but shut, ears long and pointed, not rigid enough to stand, tiny horn buds on its temples--and wobbles from side-to-side as though drunken from Ryan's lullaby. It does not, however, fall asleep. It /does/ lunge, exposing a mouth full of small but sharp teeth, all straining for Horus's face. /Squawk/! Horus sounds /indignant/ with this, eyes widening in alarm, though the feeling flaring in his mind is less alarm and more /oh geez I told you so/. His silvered wings flare outward in a sudden rustle of feathers and he kind of stumbles back a step, /flopping/ down to fold his legs beneath himself in a sudden whump. Plop. Indignance changes to puzzlement at the tiny... misshapen... /thing/ evidently attempting to eat his face. One wing cautiously pokes at the Eggling, head tipping to one side so that he can try to /write/ while getting nommed: 'Like I said Horuses add vg mensch ccx cm dash ask ask yah ish shh ahhh'. It's... possible he's not actually attempting to communicate anymore with this last string. Stylus just rubbing against his screen at random, spewing out gibbberish as he tries to hold the stylus in his beak while keeping Chompy Eggling more or /less/ away from his face. "Wheeeen the bough breaks / the cradle will faaaa--JAX!" A sigh of relief commingles with the fists pumping into the air as his hands shift into //oven mitts//. To handle the Eggling with the utmost care once it fully hatches--which it does, while Ryan is in the midst of being entwined in a Jackson-embrace, eliciting a yelp compounded by the alarm over the breached shell. "Aaaah, don't tell Isra! I've got th-- that is //so// not a duck I don't think it will imprint. Towels are in the bathroom cabinet. I think! I don't do laundry," he manages to direct Micah as he extricates himself to race towards the beanbag nest and emerging, ravenous Eggling creature. "Quick," he gestures //everyone// over with a wave of his omitted hand, as he intervenes with Horus to try and //scoop// up still partially shelled Eggling while trilling and cooing as he establishes some psionic connection with it. Serenity to curb the provocative hunger, the warm feeling of affection rising like a warm bubble of comfort to *pop* and immerse the room in joyous reception. Still uncertain despite the surge of emotion, he opens his mouth to--hiccup. Part of that peace he's effecting miiiiight be drunken stupor-influenced. "Ryan, it's Isra's /kid/ we kinda gotta -- tell Isra, I'll text -- oh /gosh/." Jax is getting out his phone to text, though his eye has opened up even wider once the youngling is actually /out/ of the egg. There is a definitive moment as the newborn lunges for Horus that his feelings have just shifted to horror, but he ushes this back to hasten towards the kitchen and retrieve a very large mixing-bowl full of warm water. "-- Ryan please don't let it eat Horus, uh, at... at least it. Looks healthy?" There's water sloshing out of the bowl as he hastens back in, setting bowl down beside the beanbag. "/Duck/ why on /earth/ would it be a -- it's Isra an' Dusk's /kid/, Ry, are you /drunk/?" At least the horror is giving way to a resigned amusement. "Gosh s'a ugly thing ain't it? Didn't... get their dad's looks that's. For sure."
"Ohgosh, no time for towels. Don't eat Horus, Egg!" Micah fetches a throw blanket from a nearby chair and moves in along with Ryan to assist with the Horus rescue. "Let's just wrap 'em like a dog or cat as is gettin' a little too bitey. Usually that's calmin'. I have...no idea if they wanna eat quick like a mammal or if it's like... I mean /chicks/ are good for two-three days from the yolk. But this'n's tryin' t'bite already." His head just shakes at the...odd commentary from Ryan. "S'a newborn." He chuckles a little at Jax's reaction. "They're usually a little wet an' squishy." Blanket spread out over his arms, he steps right up beside Ryan to assist the drunken man's very likely impaired reactions in controlling the little one. "The calmin' thing you're doin's good. An'...you're lettin' Isra know, Jax? Maybe she could bring some kinda food along with?" Needle-like teeth latch onto the wing Horus offers. The hatchling seems to calm down once it has found a feathered pacifier, though it works the rest of its scrawny body out far enough to pry the shell the rest of the way open. It has, in addition to two arm and two legs, a pair of stubby membranous wings--the same length as its other limbs--and a long tail. When Ryan lifts it, all six limbs and thirty curved claws hook onto the oven mitts. Its oversized eyes start to crack open, but then immediately squeeze shut. Tiny jaws open wide to loose a string of clicking sounds that might be the beginnings of a growl, releasing Horus's wing in the process. It buries its face against one of Ryan's palms and seems content for the moment to sway back and forth, chewing ineffectively at the fabric of his wisely-chosen protective gear. Horus's squawking rises to a sharper creel, but calms again to a softer cooing warble once the teeth are no longer in his wing, once Ryan's happymood saturates the room, a few droplets of blood scattered red in among the shiny silver. 'Eat Horus eat Horus everyone eat Horus tasty tasty bird even newborn already think tasty Horus,' the stream of quiet monotone tablet-voice moves farther away from Egg, Horus fluttering his way up to a safely distant perch overhead. From this height he tips his head. One way then another. Back and forth. /Eying/ the creature cradled against Ryan's glove. 'Is it a real baby.' "Listen, when YOU get a text about a giant egg Horus thought he broke you have no clue what's going to pop out. When did Dusk even MAKE the egg he's in jail--or so I've been told!" Ryan avoids the sobriety question, managing to //pry// Eggling off of Horus with a sympathetic cringe at the spatter of blood from where it latched to the birdman's wing. "It definitely //feels// hungry," he assesses, probing, empathically tethering himself through the stereo of noise in the room as he hums to the clawing, gnawing, gargoyle-bat-hybrid-spawn attacking his mitts. "There, there," he says gently, as much to the retreating Horus as the Eggling as he sways, tipping //back// into the beanbag, accidentally knocking the bowl over as he palm-fumbles the hatchling against his chest, pinning the nestled mitt there to apply the other one against its back, as he hums a tranquilizing melody. "Maybe it needs tequila. Err, //I// need--more. It's definitely a baby, but is it a //boy// or a //girl// or //neither//? Oh. Shhh, shh, it's alright... Um." His forehead furrows, brows knit in concentration. Names are being contemplated. "Dusk /been/ in jail. Only since Christmas, though, he made the Egg way before /that/." Jax claps a hand against his face, scrubbing his palm down over his cheek as he tips the bowl back right-way-up and eyes the /pool/ of warm water it's spread on the floor. "We ain't givin' the baby tequila, honey-honey." He's maybe stifling a giggle with this, though. "It don't look real squishy." Maaaybe he's scooting away to go fetch a bottle of tequila anyway. He waggles it out to Ryan. Like a bribe. "Trade you?" For the pile of claws and teeth in his hands, apparently. "I think it's a --" He tips onto his toes, a little bit closer to the beanbag. "Goblin." His tongue pokes at the side of his mouth. "Don't think that's a gender though." "Ohgosh, apologies, Horus. We'll get that cleaned up just as soon as we get this'un settled." Micah's concerned look dissolves into laughter. "'Course it's a real baby. Totally real. Y'gettin' /just/ 'hungry' of 'em, or maybe what they're hungry /for/, too? I dunno what t'give 'em. I mean...aside from 'not-Horus'. Tryin' t'eat Horus implies...meat. Or blood. But I don't wanna give 'em somethin' that'll hurt 'em. Like tequila. /So/ not tequila." When Jax offers the trade, he lifts his blanketed arms up again to receive the little one. "Needs t'get dry an' warm, sugar. Otherwise we'll have a hungry, /cold/ baby on our hands. All sad an' shivery." Ryan's calm-drunk aura might have something to do with why Micah is laughing /again/. "David Bowie's the Goblin King. Well, Jareth. But David Bowie. Pretty sure Goblin could be a gender, considerin'." The leathery snap of powerful wings outside signals Isra's arrival. She hovers for a moment and knocks before her long, taloned feet even touch the stoop. Clearly, she has not dressed for a foray out into the freezing cold--a tight-fitting red cropped top, black tights, and a purple shawl hastily thrown over her shoulders. The hatchling teeters and wobbles between Ryan's hands, stretching out a toothy maw to jaw sluggishly at any body part that gets close enough. It still radiates hunger, but in a pleasant, mellow sort of way now. It does not even seem to mind getting juggled about, though its claws seem to have a tendency to get caught on the oven mitts and pull away like velcro. Its eyes squint open--long enough to show bright green irises--and shut once again. 'Not squishy no only pointy sharp ow.' Horus swoops down off his perch, gliding towards the door to /headbonk/ its button, letting it swing open. He greets Isra with a stern chittering, an equally stern command: 'Do not eat Horus.' Then skitter-hops back a couple steps, taptatapping to help catch her up: 'Ryan is drunk and your baby is terrible.' In explanation he holds up his blood-speckled wing. Tap again: 'Ow.' And again: 'Its gender might be goblin we don't know I did not mean to break the egg sorry but it broke and now there is a monster here it might eat everyone but it is very very small.' "I'm surprised I didn't end up in jail on Christmas. Instead I wound up...here. On New Year's Eve. I think," Ryan debatably regales them all from his reclining position amidst the beanbag, handling the carefully scooped hatchling gingerly, vibrating vocal chords thrumming through his ribcage as well. "It's kind of cute." The beer goggles are strong with this one, as he lets out a flippant huff and chastising scowl at Jackson and Micah. "Noooo way. //I// got this one. Drape the blanket over baby Bowie and maybe dribble some tequila in my mouth if I open it and tilt my head back?" He maneuvers the buffering mitt tactfully to avoid the wandering infant monster mouth while supporting and //harboring// it from the others drunkenly but protectively, canting his head per his own instructions first and then in the //opposite// direction towards Isra. "As the only available non-incarcerated Ryan I am filling in for Dusk until he can tend to your kid. Congratulations. What do you eat? Does anyone know if goblin mothers lactate?" "Ain't nobody eatin' you, Horus." Jax reassures Horus of this almost reflexively. He glances towards the door, nose crinkling up on a crooked twitch of smile. "Hey, Isra. We, um. There's -- Egg." Though he does sort of /wince/ at Horus's explanation to her. "It did sorta try an' nom on Horus a bit. I -- I don't know. S'got a mouthful of /teeth/ already an' -- fair sharp ones -- /no/ I ain't givin' you /more/ tequila while you got Egg. An' Dusk -- ain't gonna be tending to the kid, Micah an' I are. Adoptin' -- them. Anyway, tequila /or/ baby, you can't have both." Sneeeak sneak sneak, he's stretching his non-tequila-laden hand out towards Eggling. Though not trying to /take/ the baby, now. Just sort of /experimentally/ holding his hand near the hatchling's needle teeth. "Isra, hi." Micah's cheeks take on several shades of red, rapid-fire, at all of the conversation going on. "Oh/gosh/. Ohno. Nobody's a monster an' nobody's a goblin an' nobody's getting' /eaten/, goodness. Egg hatched. They're just...hungry an' also toothy an' Horus was...kinda right /there/ when they started lookin' for somethin' t'chew on. We /aren't/ sure what t'feed 'em, however." He keeps holding the blanket out despite Ryan's protests. "Sugar, you're /drunk/. I'm concerned 'bout your judgement an' your reflexes an' your coordination just now, t'be honest. Thank you for your help. An' the calmin' is lovely. But /'specially/ if y'wanna keep drinkin', someone else should handle Egg. Please." His shoulders tense a little at Jax's hand drawing closer. "Careful, honey. Think we're gonna need t'invest in some kevlar bite gloves. An' a lotta real good Chewelry." He does smile again, now, though, agreeing with /one/ thing Ryan said. "Is pretty cute. Lookit those big, green eyes." Isra enters on long, gliding steps, pupils dilating when she sees Horus's injured wing. "I have no intention of eating you, and I regret that the...child does not share my convictions in this regard. I don't think you /broke/ it, though; eggs do that eventually. I just did not think it would hatch quite so soon." Her eyes search the room frantically, and she tilts her head when she spots Ryan. "Welcome back..." There's a touch of a question in her tone, and her gaze flicks to Jax and Micah and their respective props. "Er, yes, they are the parents; Dusk and I mean to do what we can, which..." She edges closer, radiating anxiety. "At this point doesn't seem like much. I eat large quantities. Especially of meat." She looks down at her flat, muscular chest. "I don't know much about goblins, but I do not lactate." The hatchling flails somewhat ineffectually and looses a long string of clicks in complaint at being kept from biting Ryan anywhere other than the mitts. They have started blinking their eyes open occasionally, though still averting them from any strong light source. Whether they see Jax's hand, smell it, or sense it in some other way, they turns toward it and stretch out one wing and one arm. Toothy jaws open wide and wave languidly toward the exposed skin. The sound they make now is more like a mechanical purr. Horus flutters back to his overhead perch, watching all the goings-on below with still-wide eyes. 'Are you drunk.' He's looking to Micah with this question, winging back down to a perch closer to the Egg. 'Careful it will eat you maybe. Maybe maybe. Ate Horus. Though you,' he decides after looking Jax over carefully, 'no feathers, maybe less tasty. And Ryan just tastes like tequila. Who here tastes best feed goblinmoster that person.' "Okay, okay," Ryan concedes at last, offering up the goblinmonsterhatchlingcreature to be swaddled in the waiting throw blanket as he gathers himself to his feet. He declines the tequila bottle in favor of whistling to acquire Horus's attention. "Oy. Let's let them figure it out. I think we did our part. And you're bleeding for it." Sober sense for a drunkard, but then he's functional; he's had plenty of practice at operating under the influence of some substance for another. Along with the handing off of Egg come the oven mitts, freeing Ryan's hands to make grabby motions! A half-hug is exacted from Jax, and a hand hooks around Horus to steer him to the bathroom for tending to his wound, leaving the assorted parental types to FIGURE IT OUT. (It being food.) Jax sets the tequila aside and curls an arm underneath Goblin, steering it into Micah's blanket as Ryan gets up. His churning emotional state is -- very definitively /not/ echoing the Cute sentiments, kiiind of reserved, kiiind of wary, kiiind of discomfited. None of which stops him from shaking his head at Micah's suggestion of bite gloves and offering his wrist to the opening Toothsome Jaws. "Ryan's a pretty competent drunk," he says with quiet amusement, biting down briefly on his lip as he steps closer to Micah. Touches the thin skin of his wrist lightly against gaping maw. "Sound kinda happier now, don't you, sugar?" His voice is quieter-gentler when addressing Egg, soft as he looks down at the hatchling. "Not drunk. But thank you both for your help." Micah's expression softens as he wraps the little bundle into the blankets, rubbing gently at its limbs to help dry them. "Hey, there, sugar. Think maybe Jax's got the idea that y'eat like your daddy. Which we can try for /now/ with just you'n me, but shouldn't encourage feedin' randomly off folks, yeah? We're gonna hafta come up with a safer source for blood 'til the little one can develop some restraint in feedin', if that's the thing. But as good a guess as any for now. We'll need t'get to a doc an' figure...nutritional requirements an' all that goodness out. Think we'll wanna put dimmer bulb lights in the spare room, too. Nursery. Didn't have time t'make it a nursery. But they seem t'have pretty sensitive eyes for now." The drying-rubbing motions take nearly on a petting quality. "An' /you/ are gonna need a real name. None a'this Egg an' Goblin business," he adds, speaking right to the newborn. Isra's wings, mantled tensely behind her until now, shiver out, one curling over Jax and the other over Micah. She towers over them both and looks down at the infant. They have transferred the grip of their tiny talons to the blanket, though still squirming so much as to defy proper swaddling. Dried now, their skin looks lighter and closer to Isra's natural slate gray, though covered in large part with short, fine, velvety black hair. They free one hand from the blanket to wrap ungainly around Jax's forearm, /holding/ it in place. Tiny, pointy teeth sink into the wrist and blood trickles out. The purr grows louder as they drink--a little sloppily--green eyes half-lidded and wandering unfocused. Isra's wings squeeze down on the shoulders of the two men, and she makes a small, inscrutable sound in her lower vocal chords. "Well," she says, and nothing more. | |
