When the lights fade out, Popinjay is left in darkness, with only the broad side of the white elk-stallion to guide her, and she steps clumsily into him, pressing her nose against his flank for bearing, no longer concerned about the danger he might pose. The blindness was only ever temporary, and, slowly, her eyes recover, the dim forest becomes sharp again to her dark eyes. She blinks twirling stars from her vision, small ears swiveling to catch his apology and word of concern. She has already forgotten about the cut on her forehead and the blood on her face, that happened so long ago, years ago, why would he even bring it up? She shakes the last of the darkness from her eyes. And what a ridiculous thing to ask, where Taiga is going, Taiga isn’t going anywhere! Does he thinks the trees are just gonna get up and walk away?
Wait, can they get up and walk away?
Popinjay decides to store that question away for later. It suddenly dawns on her that the Dangerous Stranger she was following so carefully, is actually close enough to touch. In fact, she had touched him. She squeals and skitters away from Ayjay of Hyena, hopping the rotted remnants of a nearby tree stump so that it stands between them, a small mound of black, wet, wood and moss that even the youngest foal in the Taiga could easily conquer, and fixes an appraising eye on him. He doesn’t look like a hyena, but anything seems possible.
“I’m Popinjay! I heard that hyenas laugh a lot, so you must be awful funny. Oh, oh! Tell me a joke, okay?” Her face brightens, tail flipped over her haunches, as she steps forward eagerly, into the dark mass of soft wood at her feet. She is, neither the diplomat Aegean needs, or the one he deserves.
Wait, can they get up and walk away?
Popinjay decides to store that question away for later. It suddenly dawns on her that the Dangerous Stranger she was following so carefully, is actually close enough to touch. In fact, she had touched him. She squeals and skitters away from Ayjay of Hyena, hopping the rotted remnants of a nearby tree stump so that it stands between them, a small mound of black, wet, wood and moss that even the youngest foal in the Taiga could easily conquer, and fixes an appraising eye on him. He doesn’t look like a hyena, but anything seems possible.
“I’m Popinjay! I heard that hyenas laugh a lot, so you must be awful funny. Oh, oh! Tell me a joke, okay?” Her face brightens, tail flipped over her haunches, as she steps forward eagerly, into the dark mass of soft wood at her feet. She is, neither the diplomat Aegean needs, or the one he deserves.
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
@[aegean]
