Starlin
At first she does not recognize the faint smell. It has been nearly a year since they’d left the forest, after all, and time passes quickly for young children. Starlin is nearly two now, and despite having spent her first six months in the ever-autumnal woods, it is not until she’s all but on top of the strange colt that she is able to put a name to it.
“Sylva.” She says as she stands in front of the buckskin and violet colt, the word said wonderingly first, and accusingly the second. “Sylva.”
The grullo filly’s brown furrows, and she lowers her pinned-eared head to glare at the younger colt.
“What’re you doing out here?” She demands. “Shouldn’t you be at A “How to Bully” lesson or something?”
Mother has said to run if she were to confront a Sylvan. They were not to be trusted. They would hurt her first and ask question later; they were the ones that had taken her first home. This colorful colt probably hadn’t (he’s too young), but he’s also the first Sylvan she’s ever come across. She shakes her mane from out of her blue grey eyes, and prepares herself for the colt to attack.
“Sylva.” She says as she stands in front of the buckskin and violet colt, the word said wonderingly first, and accusingly the second. “Sylva.”
The grullo filly’s brown furrows, and she lowers her pinned-eared head to glare at the younger colt.
“What’re you doing out here?” She demands. “Shouldn’t you be at A “How to Bully” lesson or something?”
Mother has said to run if she were to confront a Sylvan. They were not to be trusted. They would hurt her first and ask question later; they were the ones that had taken her first home. This colorful colt probably hadn’t (he’s too young), but he’s also the first Sylvan she’s ever come across. She shakes her mane from out of her blue grey eyes, and prepares herself for the colt to attack.
grit & grace.