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Myrika is by Titmouse!
No, silly girl, the old hybrid said, leaning back in Myrika's bed. The redhead herself leaned against the desk on the opposite wall, staring toward her grandmother sullenly. It's important because it's a mark of our family.
Yes, but not everyone has one, she said, crossing her arms over her chest. Her eyes were on the red star emblazoned on the old woman's chest, bright color splashed against the knobby marks of scar tissue. Myri had a few scars of her own, but none were any serious thing, and most were invisible beneath her thick pelt. Why is it so important I have one? she asked, shifting her weight and fidgeting on the desk. Ithiel doesn't, she pointed out, using the first example that leapt to mind.
The old woman huffed and grinned, a frightening sight of old scar tissue twisting and pulling on her face. He'll have his, too, if I have anything to say about it. Myrika saw plainly enough, the discussion was going to continue in this circular fashion. She looked away and toward the open windows. All the leather and pelt curtains were pulled back -- it was far too hot within the schoolhouse in the daytime to have them closed off. Her blue eyes narrowed, and Kaena soon sat up as well, twisting around to look out of the schoolhouse. Ezekiel, she said, only as their Aquila drew close to the schoolhouse. Myri had recognized him some time ago, and she frowned, seeing the second horse and the way they were laden. Perhaps he was taking a trip.
Sliding off the desk, the redhead moved toward the entrance of her home. Ezekiel spoke in the doorway, and the tone of his voice made her hurry. Soft and slower footsteps behind her told her Kaena was following. She stopped before him, hesitating, and cocked her head. Okay, she said, quietly. What's going on? There was anxiousness in the fold of her ears and the droop of her tail, the way her head seemed to dip lower and her eyes focused somewhere around Zeke's knees.
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