[The only reason Carla Morir is even somewhat amiable about this curse is the very simple fact that her leg is not broken and her arm is not sprained. She has four perfectly healthy limbs to work with here, and she is in the mood for gratitude: even if they are very pink. She is very pink, all over. There's even a thick stripe of it through her mane and that skull on her ass has pink hearts for eyes. More pink than she was interested in, really, but once she's gotten Rex to shut up already and stop barking at her like a maniac, she decides that she is going to go out and stretch her unbroken legs while she has the chance. Her mood is good, maybe she'll even harass a few people while she's out. Pony battling sounds fun...]
[Nature has even seen fit to equip Chase with his own pony-battling melee weapon, protruding through the floppy blonde hair which is the only outwardly familiar feature on today's form.
(One of the only familiar features. The other consists of five pale lines of scar tissue on what can only appropriately be described as his rump, and would be recognisable to a select few).
He doesn't look primed for battle, however. In the park, in the drizzle, resolutely thumping a hoof into a faintly reflective puddle, he looks like he might just be sulking.]
[What a sulky pony... She approaches him quietly, lowering her head to find her way into eyeline, one pink eye of the grinning skull peeping out at him from beneath a dark forelock.]
[He blinks up, blue-eyed from under absurdly long eyelashes (well, some things never change) not quite sure how he managed to be self absorbed enough to be snuck up on by a horse.]
[She whinnies when she laughs, nose scrunching. In addition to her ridiculous pink fur, it's all very inappropriate to her person. Oh well, she circles around him slowly, eyeing his band-aids. Or whatever.]
They remind me of my misspent youth. Wrestling crocs on the Yarra River.
[He's bruise free today at least, though in pinker form there are still some clinging to his ribcage from his days as a fox. But there's no black on his blue right now. He whickers softly, lip curling against his teeth in what might be a pony smirk.]
[That was cute. (It would have been cute, if he applied that terminology to horses.)
It was cute. And he's looking decidedly less glum and more pleased with himself, chest puffed out with it even as he tries to get a glimpse of his own haunches.]
But you're right, those aren't from crocs. Lesser Melburnian Drop Bear.
[She steps in while he's distracted, laying her head across the back of his neck with an amused look, her perked ears currently more expressive than her eyebrows.]
[She's some kind of pony ninja. All four hooves pick up one after the other at the tickle of her chin against the curve of his neck. Now he drops his chin down to look back and up at her.]
What would you know about it? They're probably what wiped out your natives.
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(One of the only familiar features. The other consists of five pale lines of scar tissue on what can only appropriately be described as his rump, and would be recognisable to a select few).
He doesn't look primed for battle, however. In the park, in the drizzle, resolutely thumping a hoof into a faintly reflective puddle, he looks like he might just be sulking.]
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Having fun?
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What did you come as, the Grim Reapony?
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[She whinnies when she laughs, nose scrunching. In addition to her ridiculous pink fur, it's all very inappropriate to her person. Oh well, she circles around him slowly, eyeing his band-aids. Or whatever.]
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[All this circling makes him nervous and before she's half way round him he's turning too, trotting on the spot to bring his head round to meet her.]
It looks better in tight jeans.
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[Her eyes flicker up like a good girl before shaking her head at him with another laugh, not quite touching her nose to his.]
I like your scars.
[Also known as 'fuck your pants.' She'd liked his bruises too though, so this is not an overall surprising assessment from her.]
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[He's bruise free today at least, though in pinker form there are still some clinging to his ribcage from his days as a fox. But there's no black on his blue right now. He whickers softly, lip curling against his teeth in what might be a pony smirk.]
Back in Horsetralia.
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They're not from crocs and that was awful.
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[That was cute. (It would have been cute, if he applied that terminology to horses.)
It was cute. And he's looking decidedly less glum and more pleased with himself, chest puffed out with it even as he tries to get a glimpse of his own haunches.]
But you're right, those aren't from crocs. Lesser Melburnian Drop Bear.
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There are no drop bears.
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What would you know about it? They're probably what wiped out your natives.
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[Hey, man, Reanimates know how to be stealthy. She nuzzles against him lazily, her cheek along his neck.]
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My money's on the marsupials.
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[No she is not sulking about it all, although she is maybe nudging at him, nosing against his stupid pony cheek.]
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[Facetious of course, although: truth, she never asked. He straightens out and shakes that crop of a mane before being upside down makes him dizzy.]
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Where did you get those scars, pony-boy.
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[For a horse, he can be a stubborn ass when he wants to me. Huffing breath, he sidesteps her nudging, butting his head lightly against her shoulder.]
I guarantee whatever you're imagining is more impressive than the truth.
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I hadn't gotten as far as imagining.
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So it was your fault.
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I was at school in England for a while. [Seminary.] He was staff. Think it was my way of announcing the decision to leave.
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[...No, Carla, no. That's terrible. Her jokes are terrible, but she was already laughing at his story long before it came out of her mouth.]
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[He tilts his head up and neighs before trotting down the path towards the lake, kicking up dust.]
It's one way to lose your virginity.
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[Seriously, Chase, like she's not going to now stalk you the rest of the day so she can stare at your ass.]
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