( getian’s clamor goes something like this: halting his forward progression at one of the large windows, his talons lash out to glance off of the glass’ sheer surface. he then startles, the sudden increased flapping of his wings sending him up so that he bumps the crown of his head against the ceiling. his eyes squeeze shut, a muffled grunt catching in his throat; it’s at that point that he lands with yet another heavy thump on the ground, wings stilling, his chest rising and falling quickly through the gap in the sheer fabric of his robe as he looks around.
stop your commotion.
he does stop. the miemeng bird goes fully rigid, even the breath halting in his lungs—his eyes are the only things that move, tracking over to the other bed, where a shape still rests beneath layers of bedding. he wants answers, but any demands of whether or not this individual is the culprit behind bringing him here die in his throat as he considers it further. it wouldn’t really make sense for a kidnapper to sleep in the same manner as his quarry, would it? does it even really make sense that he is kidnapped, if he’s not bound? there’s nothing to stop him from flying away—if he can just get a door or a window open.
perhaps the getian of many years ago wouldn’t have bothered waiting for any answers from the stranger; he would have simply escaped without a second thought. the circumstances of others had not been his concern. but concern is a worm that has burrowed itself into the core of his heart, so he steps forward, moving closer to the occupied bed. many birds have long legs meant for strutting—a miemeng is not one. the action is somewhat uncomfortable, and far less so than flying, but there’s not enough room in these close quarters. )
I assume you are not the one behind this. ( his tone is placid, though any number of implications could rest beneath its surface. when he is close enough, he reaches out with a taloned claw to grasp at the sheets before tossing them off of the figure—there is considerable strength in those legs, it seems.)
no subject
stop your commotion.
he does stop. the miemeng bird goes fully rigid, even the breath halting in his lungs—his eyes are the only things that move, tracking over to the other bed, where a shape still rests beneath layers of bedding. he wants answers, but any demands of whether or not this individual is the culprit behind bringing him here die in his throat as he considers it further. it wouldn’t really make sense for a kidnapper to sleep in the same manner as his quarry, would it? does it even really make sense that he is kidnapped, if he’s not bound? there’s nothing to stop him from flying away—if he can just get a door or a window open.
perhaps the getian of many years ago wouldn’t have bothered waiting for any answers from the stranger; he would have simply escaped without a second thought. the circumstances of others had not been his concern. but concern is a worm that has burrowed itself into the core of his heart, so he steps forward, moving closer to the occupied bed. many birds have long legs meant for strutting—a miemeng is not one. the action is somewhat uncomfortable, and far less so than flying, but there’s not enough room in these close quarters. )
I assume you are not the one behind this. ( his tone is placid, though any number of implications could rest beneath its surface. when he is close enough, he reaches out with a taloned claw to grasp at the sheets before tossing them off of the figure—there is considerable strength in those legs, it seems.)
Get up. This is no time to sleep.