08-27-2017, 08:37 PM
The no man’s lands that I travelled through to get from my wooded home to the common lands are familiar. The woods are half evergreen and half everred, and when I reached the wide river I had known exactly where to ford. The forests of the Taiga had changed since I last travelled, and I’d given the odd thorny barrier a wide berth as I passed it this morning.
My pale legs are still damp as I make my way through the woods, craning my head up now and again to look at the spindly branches overhead. They are starting to lose their fiery colors. Each step I takes is fragrant and loud, and I expects the same would be true of anyone else making their way through the woods.
I am startled then, when my blue grey eyes catch a flicker of motion that is not accompanied by sound. It’s a child, one that looks to be a few months younger than I am. He does not look especially pleased with his current circumstances, and as I scent the clearing I can’t say I blame him. There’s no lactating mare anywhere nearby, nor has there been one in some time. Most foals are well-weaned this late into fall. Perhaps he’s not really a foal, I think, recalling my Mother’s story of the child-guardian of the Desert.
Eager, and hopeful that this small child might provide some excitement on a chilly autumn day, I approach with a smile.
“Hey. What’s your name?” I ask. There is nothing threatening in my posture, and I’ve kept a comfortable distance between us. I am far from intimidating anyway, a six month old filly that is still mostly legs and eyes. “I’m Starlin.”
My pale legs are still damp as I make my way through the woods, craning my head up now and again to look at the spindly branches overhead. They are starting to lose their fiery colors. Each step I takes is fragrant and loud, and I expects the same would be true of anyone else making their way through the woods.
I am startled then, when my blue grey eyes catch a flicker of motion that is not accompanied by sound. It’s a child, one that looks to be a few months younger than I am. He does not look especially pleased with his current circumstances, and as I scent the clearing I can’t say I blame him. There’s no lactating mare anywhere nearby, nor has there been one in some time. Most foals are well-weaned this late into fall. Perhaps he’s not really a foal, I think, recalling my Mother’s story of the child-guardian of the Desert.
Eager, and hopeful that this small child might provide some excitement on a chilly autumn day, I approach with a smile.
“Hey. What’s your name?” I ask. There is nothing threatening in my posture, and I’ve kept a comfortable distance between us. I am far from intimidating anyway, a six month old filly that is still mostly legs and eyes. “I’m Starlin.”