Noctisardor Bypass wore my language like an amaranth

phaedra shook her head, denying recognition of the man he called wintersbane. she settled comfortably against her hocks and restlessly thumped her tail, lending her father a look of anticipation becoming of a child enshrouded by her blankets as she awaited her bedtime story.

nearly fledged now, that little girl. 

listening on, she felt her spirit pine for the wild montane place he depicted. the fact that wylla had qualms about the locational hazards of it seemed in perfect keeping with her personality. she'd always been quite assiduous in making sure her own were provided for. 

still, phaedra feigned disbelief: "my mother?" she rejoined, shooting him an arch look. "that doesn't sound like her at all." 
lighthearted; the topic was nonetheless the omphalos of sorrowed feeling; the axis around which her grief rotated evermore. and while she had forsaken any real hope that her mother would come back for good, it was all the same a nice dream to have. 

just that, though: a dream. 

currently realizing she'd become lost in such griefspun thoughts, the girl batted her eyes over-alertly and caught the end of "the sunspire". embarrassment spread itself redwood and goosefleshed across her skin.  

when he'd finished the telling of it: "ich wette, da kommen aus blitz und sturm." she looked again to the stormwoven bird, now joined by the tiercel. tipping her muzzle, phaedra moved to butt her shoulder against mahler's—"apropos, schau a mal," she said.
the male preened his mate's cheek feathers while she sunned,
proving that love truly was for the birds.