The idea of swimming the very channel that she had nearly drowned in filled her with immeasurable dread, but the roan was already stepping into the water. Unprepared and unwilling to be alone, Beryl had screwed up her courage and followed him into the icy water, small teeth holding tight to his tail. She barely swam, tugged along by the stallion's strength and surrounded, if anyone had cared to see, by darkness and shifting yellow eyes. Her own eyes are shut tight and her breath short and quick, but the darkness holds her aloft in the water no matter the depth or cresting of wild waves. In this manner, she survives the crossing, and when they reach the far shore, she is barely even wet.
Which, perhaps, is just as well, because in the North, and even here, in the forests of the Southeast, it is still winter, and not an ideal time to be damp and exposed. That it has no effect on Leilan is astonishing, even dry she shivers, her coat thin, but the rime of frost over his scales does nothing but add to the appearance of roaning. When he is not looking, she blows softly on his icy shoulder and watches the smoke of her breath cloud and freeze upon it, leaving a softly opaque spot there.
Small as it is, the laugh makes her cough, though it is less than the day before.
The forest's yields are mildly disappointing, but a few dried apples found clinging to a leafless tree serve admirably for the time. Something else, however, has caught his attention and, grabbing one withered, leathery fruit, she chases after Leilan as he veers away to a disparate group of horses milling in a loose circle. The sabino is strange and... hungry? She keeps hidden on the other side of Leilan from the stallion. The three mares are less frightening, but a quick glance proves none to be her mother. Her disappointment is a shroud across those chocolate eyes.
Anatomy says she is looking for the desert and hates the cold, to which Beryl nods as solemnly as one her age can - this is an understandable sentiment, the cold has been no friend to her. And yet...
Warm eyes angle back up to Leilan. He must feel differently, living as he does, with ice growing on his skin. The snow beneath the dark mare melts and a flame of panic builds in Beryl's young heart. Will she melt everything? Will she melt him? She stamps a small hoof and squeals - though it is breathy and almost noiseless through the rawness of her throat - dropping her apple to the ground where it bounces once and rolls into the darkness of the forest. The filly's curled ears pin back and she snorts pointedly at Anatomy.
From the shadows where no one stands, a dried apple takes flight, the raven mare its target.
Which, perhaps, is just as well, because in the North, and even here, in the forests of the Southeast, it is still winter, and not an ideal time to be damp and exposed. That it has no effect on Leilan is astonishing, even dry she shivers, her coat thin, but the rime of frost over his scales does nothing but add to the appearance of roaning. When he is not looking, she blows softly on his icy shoulder and watches the smoke of her breath cloud and freeze upon it, leaving a softly opaque spot there.
Small as it is, the laugh makes her cough, though it is less than the day before.
The forest's yields are mildly disappointing, but a few dried apples found clinging to a leafless tree serve admirably for the time. Something else, however, has caught his attention and, grabbing one withered, leathery fruit, she chases after Leilan as he veers away to a disparate group of horses milling in a loose circle. The sabino is strange and... hungry? She keeps hidden on the other side of Leilan from the stallion. The three mares are less frightening, but a quick glance proves none to be her mother. Her disappointment is a shroud across those chocolate eyes.
Anatomy says she is looking for the desert and hates the cold, to which Beryl nods as solemnly as one her age can - this is an understandable sentiment, the cold has been no friend to her. And yet...
Warm eyes angle back up to Leilan. He must feel differently, living as he does, with ice growing on his skin. The snow beneath the dark mare melts and a flame of panic builds in Beryl's young heart. Will she melt everything? Will she melt him? She stamps a small hoof and squeals - though it is breathy and almost noiseless through the rawness of her throat - dropping her apple to the ground where it bounces once and rolls into the darkness of the forest. The filly's curled ears pin back and she snorts pointedly at Anatomy.
From the shadows where no one stands, a dried apple takes flight, the raven mare its target.
Beryl
Litotes x Mehendi
@[Kradle] @[Merewen] @[Anatomy] @[Leilan] I have no idea whose turn it is! lol