Noctisardor Bypass wore my language like an amaranth

as if summoning a great eddying wind to himself, the proud river-hawk beat his wings, and set shortly to rousing his feathers. phaedra admired him, picturing in her mind herself as a bird, airborne and air-bound, and how freeing it must be.

presently her papa offered sturm for the female, a choice pleasantly germane to her theme. 
she smiled. "ja. es gefällt mir." 
together, cloudchasers. they would bear their names well. 

the silence that fell thereafter between herself and mahler was a vast departure from the facile victories of warm and effulgent familiarity reserved for fathers and their daughters. instead, talking to him was like an adrenaline rush. she perceived a flutter of sensation her breast; it was not quite butterflies. more like bats striving to burst from her mouth.

but what did he feel? regret that she was the one child who wouldn't go away? the snowflower grimaced to think that. 
has there ever been a worse type of daughter?

a slew of topics cluttered her mind, but none so pressing as the one pertaining to her mother’s whereabouts. where she was now. why she had not yet come home for good. why grown-ups were so exhausting.

phaedra rallied words to her to tongue-tip, but the courage to follow through flamed out from her chest. restless, she sighed. fidgeted her ears. “y—is—so i was ...” scuffed her paw, eyes dropping to the mat of moss. "i was... um..."

navigating through this realm of politesse was such pick-and-shovel stuff.

“will we... when will we be moving again?” the girl blurted and then looked away sheepishly.