The icy wind incites a riot in her and she cannot stay in Taiga. Poppy runs wild, criss-crossing the meadow until her breath comes in great, cloudy, draughts and the snow underfoot has been churned to a sort of murky grey. She is a fuzzy, feral thing, the loose curls of her mane snaking into the air with each gust, her tail twisting, her body twisting, too, with every ecstatic buck. Something is in the air, a sound she can feel but not hear, a smell she can taste, there is tension in the worried, hushed, whispers that dart between the horses gathered in the common lands. Strange beasts and new Queens rise in Pangea, and something else. Something else, rushing out from the the beach with a boom and a sigh, rushing from a place where so many horses go, and from where they should certainly not be returning. Confusion, excitement, worry and joy, all blend together into a strange elixir and the young bay - already half-drunk on her own adventures - is especially drawn to the strangeness of it all.
To the electricity of it.
She would continue in this pattern until she is too tired even to walk back home but for a familiar scent that reaches her and gives her pause. Not scent, scents. A voice crashing through the air. The two year old slows and stops, cranes her head up to seek out the familiar shape of Turul in the sky, but she does not see him. Aten is on the wind, and Lilliana, and Aquaria. So many and so close, as if they are having a secret meeting in the meadow. Hm. Well. If they're all invited, she must be, too.
The thought makes her grin, even she knows that this is not how secrets work.
She pulls off her course, picking up a swift trot until she finds the place where they gather, coming together around a bay and white mare. The young mare's head tilts to one side, small ears straining forward to hear their voices. The painted mare grins and it, too, is full of secrets, full of trickery. There is a great black bird on her shoulder. Poppy likes her immediately.
Ravens. There are ravens in her forest and she knows Turul and his kind dislike them Like the crows, they will mob and bully in groups. She wonders if Turul's opinion colors Aten's voice with that serious tone, or if it something else that troubles him. Popinjay is not troubled. She presses forward, thrusting herself well into the group with a madcap grin, nodding once to Turul as though he is the only one that matters, and then, drawing nearer to the strange mare than may be wise, she greets the raven.
"I am sorry, I didn't know you'd be here or I'd have brought you something shiny for your nest."
To the electricity of it.
She would continue in this pattern until she is too tired even to walk back home but for a familiar scent that reaches her and gives her pause. Not scent, scents. A voice crashing through the air. The two year old slows and stops, cranes her head up to seek out the familiar shape of Turul in the sky, but she does not see him. Aten is on the wind, and Lilliana, and Aquaria. So many and so close, as if they are having a secret meeting in the meadow. Hm. Well. If they're all invited, she must be, too.
The thought makes her grin, even she knows that this is not how secrets work.
She pulls off her course, picking up a swift trot until she finds the place where they gather, coming together around a bay and white mare. The young mare's head tilts to one side, small ears straining forward to hear their voices. The painted mare grins and it, too, is full of secrets, full of trickery. There is a great black bird on her shoulder. Poppy likes her immediately.
Ravens. There are ravens in her forest and she knows Turul and his kind dislike them Like the crows, they will mob and bully in groups. She wonders if Turul's opinion colors Aten's voice with that serious tone, or if it something else that troubles him. Popinjay is not troubled. She presses forward, thrusting herself well into the group with a madcap grin, nodding once to Turul as though he is the only one that matters, and then, drawing nearer to the strange mare than may be wise, she greets the raven.
"I am sorry, I didn't know you'd be here or I'd have brought you something shiny for your nest."
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
@[Aquaria]
