08-11-2019, 09:22 PM
She is an odd mix, equal parts cautious and bold, running hot and cold and never quite the right mix. She should be more cautious, today, than she has been so far, dashing after the pale filly, finding her easily when they separate around the shadowy trees. Popinjay’s nearly-black coat fades into their surroundings, she is nearly invisible against the rough bark of the old giants, especially those still showing signs of a fire that swept through ages ago. Since the fire, the floor of the forest has burst into life, its understory dependent on the flames to burn away clogging brush and to open the seed pods of the enormous conifers. The smell of smoke has long since dissipated, the charred ground no different from the rest of the black, damp loamy earth that compresses beneath their feet, muffling and dulling the sounds of their hooves as they run.
Lepis and her feathers have been left behind, already forgotten in the joy of running and weaving between trunks and leaping old, rotten logs that are half sunken into the earth. There is only the white filly to follow, and she pulls up suddenly. Popinjay draws closer, sides heaving with the effort of her lungs.
“Mushrooms?”
Nobody has ever told her about mushrooms. Most likely, nobody has ever thought her likely to try to eat them, which is something of a failing, all things considered. Something about Celina’s manner draws the dark filly in, a mischievous tone to her words that matches the gleam in Popinjay’s eye. The warning of Wolfbane lingers in her ears for all the world like a dare.
“Mushrooms!”
Lepis and her feathers have been left behind, already forgotten in the joy of running and weaving between trunks and leaping old, rotten logs that are half sunken into the earth. There is only the white filly to follow, and she pulls up suddenly. Popinjay draws closer, sides heaving with the effort of her lungs.
“Mushrooms?”
Nobody has ever told her about mushrooms. Most likely, nobody has ever thought her likely to try to eat them, which is something of a failing, all things considered. Something about Celina’s manner draws the dark filly in, a mischievous tone to her words that matches the gleam in Popinjay’s eye. The warning of Wolfbane lingers in her ears for all the world like a dare.
“Mushrooms!”
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
