08-17-2019, 10:29 PM
She doesn’t hear Lethy coming, doesn’t hear her climb atop the tree, but each hoof-strike vibrates against her sensitive frogs and pulls her attention away from the misty crevice with its thorns and ferns and black water. She peers back, ears flicking forward to see the buckskin mare advancing on her stern and demanding, concern lacing the harshness of her voice. Concerned about what? She should see! They should all see from so high! Intoxicated with the adrenaline, she answers with a nicker, calling an invitation to the golden mare to come see what she sees, to feel the whipping wind. She draws back a few paces so she can better hear the mare that took her in, her adoptive mother, and she looks down at Owin, looking even smaller from up above, for all that he is growing larger and faster than she does. His face speaks volumes. Mum has not come to see the sights. Her sparkling gaze turns back to Lethy as the mare orders her back.
And then, rebellion flares in her chest.
Even as the dark filly takes another step towards Lethy, she is turning, first an ear, then the angle of her nose. She does nothing to hide her intentions, nose turned, she squeals and spins, slate-grey hooves cutting a small circle into the bark underfoot and then Popinjay darts forward, fleet-footed and sure, flinging herself towards the edge along the great wide bridge of the tree. She was too fast for Lethy to grab, too fast for Owin’s burgeoning mind reading to warn against. Before he can speak, she is out of reach, is running hard, small hooves pressing into the bark, drumming rhythmically, a sound that finds traction in the wood and then expands out, echoing through the crack in the earth that opens suddenly beneath her, trumpeting her dash for freedom.
The wind rushes up to meet her, then, her coat blown left and right, up and down, it grabs her growing tail in short streamers and her curled forelock lifts from the bright star on her brow like a cork-screw horn, dancing merrily. Before she can even think, she is halfway across, and here, she stops, the trunk still wide enough that she can turn with ease, her small feet finding grip in the seams of the fallen giant. She tosses her head and gambols, her laugh is breathless as it flies from her lips and is carried away in the wild swell of the air which wraps around her, teasing her into wildness.
And then, rebellion flares in her chest.
Even as the dark filly takes another step towards Lethy, she is turning, first an ear, then the angle of her nose. She does nothing to hide her intentions, nose turned, she squeals and spins, slate-grey hooves cutting a small circle into the bark underfoot and then Popinjay darts forward, fleet-footed and sure, flinging herself towards the edge along the great wide bridge of the tree. She was too fast for Lethy to grab, too fast for Owin’s burgeoning mind reading to warn against. Before he can speak, she is out of reach, is running hard, small hooves pressing into the bark, drumming rhythmically, a sound that finds traction in the wood and then expands out, echoing through the crack in the earth that opens suddenly beneath her, trumpeting her dash for freedom.
The wind rushes up to meet her, then, her coat blown left and right, up and down, it grabs her growing tail in short streamers and her curled forelock lifts from the bright star on her brow like a cork-screw horn, dancing merrily. Before she can even think, she is halfway across, and here, she stops, the trunk still wide enough that she can turn with ease, her small feet finding grip in the seams of the fallen giant. She tosses her head and gambols, her laugh is breathless as it flies from her lips and is carried away in the wild swell of the air which wraps around her, teasing her into wildness.
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
@[Izora Lethia] Sorry, the DiscordBot has spoken XD
