”The forest is a very comforting place,” it’s where she broods and where she escapes from the world, even if only a moment. It’s where she can pretend to be back in the Jungle where the trees embraced her and her eyes were flooded with green. She reflects on it momentarily and her expression softens underneath the veil of her forelock. It unleashes a torrent of memories, but she is quickly back to the present, hardly missing a beat as her son’s nose climbs up her shoulder. Nayl regards him with a gentle nudge, but then her autumn eyes find Marjorie. ”A pleasure,” the boy states with a ruffle of his wings, groping for crumbs of the manners that have been spared to him in such a short time. Alas, he can’t elaborate on his home – not yet, at least – since he has mostly only seen the cave and the vast ocean. Mother seizes this, noting her son’s hesitation.
”It is. To tell you the truth, it took me a while to take to it,” a shrug ripples through her shoulders, ”but that was because I grew up in the Jungle and only enjoyed being surrounded by trees. Being in Nerine, at first, made me feel exposed and vulnerable, but I soon noticed its charm.” Of course, it still isn’t the Jungle; it never will be. Nerine is home, but it hasn’t quite captured her heart as the rainforest had with its humidity and wildlife. ”It’s on the coast to the west. There is an ocean that reaches far past your eyes can see, and caves that many nestle themselves into to rest or to avoid storms. There are dunes on the high cliff and still tall beach grass. It’s a rather pleasant place, to be honest. It’s home to mostly mares with only a select few stallions.” And she contemplates how she will be changing the ranks and the homing of the males. Their coast has been slipping into a stillness that she can no longer tolerate. It’s changing now.
But she doesn’t yet indulge Marjories in the fixings of Nerine, not yet.
Castile is content standing at Nayl’s side while she describes their home in detail. He considers it, weighs it, tastes the salty wind on his tongue. Then he blinks, turning his head slightly toward the right in mother’s direction, a silver eye glancing at Marjorie. ”Where are you from?” He asks his boyish curiosity, a lopsided, whiskey smile lacing across his lips.
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