Blackfeather Woods But if you were my little girl

Just in case I do not say it enough—I hate doing phone posts, omfg.

With his intentions carried out, he found himself watching the smaller being, calculative gaze drifting over her. At first, he peered into the depths of her eyes, noting their different hues before continuing downward and making a mental note of everything he saw; the silvery saddle strewn across her back, her seemingly weakened state, and so much more. Where her mass had gone, had it ever existed, he could not place, nor did he bother with asking. Rather, he returned his head to its former, upright position, looking down at her no longer as he once again met her eyes with his own. Overall, he decided, she wasn’t the least bit similar to the late queen, despite sharing traces of the same blood with her. This he did not say aloud right then, and perhaps he never would, either; she was a child of the Woods no matter.

“I don’t know you all that well, either,” he returned shortly after examining her, little time left to linger between their voices. “I only know who your mother is, it seems.” Unconsciously, perhaps it was a light crack at the missing knowledge that was her father’s name, though consciously he meant nothing by it. It was but a simple observation, meant to serve as a marker for just how little he truly knew about her. It was then that he said, “Tell me about yourself,” finding discomfort in his own lack of information. Used to knowing so much, he felt troubled by being in the dark, and sought to remedy that.