dreamer, every time you stargaze the whole world is lying at your feet
The Taiga was a delectable playground on its own for any young child, and Ana would’ve been quite content playing there all day every day if her father had allowed it, but, for some reason, daddy had taken her on this forced march to the actual Playground, muttering something about ‘social development’ and ‘becoming a well-rounded child’. She had shot back that she didn’t want to be well-rounded like him, the fat oaf, and maybe he should’ve gone to the Playground less as a child and that maybe if he had stayed home more when he was a foal he wouldn’t be so FAT now. Her daddy had said something about working on her brevity, whatever that was.
He had escorted her to the edge of the Playground, and with a brief kiss of the forehead (at which she recoiled and told him how gross he was), and a couple of instructions (Don’t leave the playground, and for goodness sake don’t talk to strangers) he left, leaving her to her own devices. This was the first time that she had ever been truly alone, and she found herself pausing for the first time ever, her light applegreen eyes wide like saucers. She took a deep breath; the air was sweet, and the feel of wind in her babyfuzz was somehow even sweeter. There wasn’t much wind, deep in the forests of her home. But she found she liked it.
And with a big grin on her face, she found herself bounding through fields of thick grass, and bright blooms, enjoying the sun on her face and the sound of birds singing to one another. That was another thing you didn’t get much of in the Taiga – unfiltered sunlight, and the novelty was not lost on her.
She felt like she could run forever. However, realistic limitations are a thing and she found herself beginning to pant a little. She slowed to a walk, and looked around her. Properly this time. She looked at the petals of the flowers, and the weird patterns the rippling sea of grass made when the wind rushed through it, and the little cabbage-butterflies that fluttered around, like little flecks of dust.
She was not the only one here. She eyed another foal, deep purple, seemingly entranced by a little orange butterfly. She remembers her father’s instruction – don’t talk to strangers – and huffs. Silly daddy. What did he know? She stalks up to him (or rather… the butterfly), with her butt held high in the air and her shoulders low, almost felid (…almost), but mostly comical.
“I can help you catch it.” She says, with a smile, as she gets closer. “If you would like. Tigers are good at catching things.” She smiles again, falls into her playbow pose, wiggles her little golden bum. “Whadya say?"
"I’m Anastazja, by the way.”
