Children, such lovely, vivid imaginations. The young black girl was a firecracker of exuberance, bounding about the forest. At his approach, she appeared rather suspicious until she had gotten a good look at him. Her little features seemed to ease in regards to his form, a question brimming on her lips. 'Butterflies?' she had asked him uncertainly.
He shook his russet his in a nod to confirm, a chuckle rising in his throat. "Why yes, Rhopalocera,"he said humored, before the filly was again animated.'It's getting away' she crowed before setting off after the winged creature once again. Weir's ears dialing in on her exclamations before he too steadily followed. He did enjoy games, and from the looks of it he had been in the middle of one. "Quite right,"he confirmed, "tally-ho!"
The chase was short lived, the youngling curling around the next tree, he himself rounding it shortly after. The child has concluded that the painted woman is in fact the butterfly. She quickly dismisses the comparison, informing the girl she was not quite a butterfly. A small shake of her dial to Weir's own words puzzles him. The child must belong to someone.
"Smells of cat, "he comments passively, conversationaly even. Before the mare inquires of the girls residence, he too was just as curious.
