09-29-2019, 11:01 PM
Whether because this was always the plan, or because of her careless words, the Sphinx has eaten Popinjay. There is only enough time for a strangled "<I>Hey!</I>" and then she tumbles head over hoof down the long slide of the creature's esophagus. The interior is dark in a way that the doorway had not been, a breeze of ancient air whistles past her ears, and there is a sense of structure around her. Her grunts and squeals echo back to her and, were she a bat, she might map the whole interior by their sound. Instead, she can only feel herself slipping endlessly into the cavernous night of the Sphinx's belly, eyes darting about yet finding nothing but starbursts and folding geometric lights as her brain struggles to pull patterns from the darkness. There is a bump and, for one breathless moment, she finds herself airborne. Her heart drops into her stomach, unsure in that brief weightlessness where or when she will find the ground again. It happens unexpectedly, she hits with a jarring thud, rolling through damp vegetation with eyes squeezed tightly shut. They fly open when she finally comes to a stop in a thick pad of ferns, but the world spins crookedly and she can make no sense of what lays before her. Something green and wet, something whirling wickedly around her, a merry-go-round that she can't get off, swirling color and light and smells. With a grunt and an awkward heave, Popinjay lifts herself to unsteady feet, her head listing, twisting, low and to the left, pulling her clumsily sideways. She steps on her own hooves, falling with tangled legs into dense brush, and remains prone in the tropical shrubbery until everything stops spinning.
It takes some time before the yearling lifts her head with clear eyes, but several minutes later, she does. As she rises, her gaze sweeps the canopy above, a troupe of howler monkeys is navigating from branch to branch and noisy green birds swoop among the leaves with ease. For her part, she charges forward in fits and starts, stopping periodically to test the edges of the path, to nose a red flower, to snatch a pretty stone in her mouth as the Sphinx had so recently done to her. The stone rolls over her tongue and clicks against her teeth as the yearling meanders along, her mood darkening, tired of the narrow trail. <I>This</I> is not fun, it is dull and dreary and she hates it, hates the packed earth under her hooves and the feeling of being trapped, hates the way the air feels too thick to breathe. It is too much. From utter stillness, the dark bay becomes a flurry of action, angry hooves tearing at the undergrowth, she will <I>make</I> the way herself, if she must. A small, dark hole opens before her and she thrusts her nose into it, her head, and, slowly, squirms through it like a snake shedding its skin until she is on the other side, finds herself in a dense jungle with no path and no direction. If she were not already lost, she might be more worried about <I>becoming</I> lost, but instead she darts forward and away as rain begins to fall.
The rain is brief, but torrential, quickly washing sweat from her coat and replacing it with black mud. Popinjay slips and slides haphazardly and is soon covered in a thick layer of it from the belly down with mad splashes up her haunches and across her face. Her star is lost, her mane and tail caked and tangled and encrusted with bits of leaf and wood, and a shining black-and-white beetle stuck upside-down near her ear. It whirrs and clicks angrily at her, discontent with its circumstances. Popinjay, however, is bright once again, she is utterly lost and doesn't care a bit. The sound of rushing water draws her nearer and she chases it through the last of the rain, but what she finds is not simply rapids. She is struck with the scent of sulfur as magma rolls into the river, boiling and hissing. The way forward is not immediately obvious, in truth, there appears to be no way across and Popinjay frowns and wrinkles her nose, thinking hard. She is at the very base of a mountain that is surrounded by the melted rock and the only way across, high above her, is a limp bridge. She is certain that her original path must have led directly to it, why else have such a path, and such a bridge? But she has not come so far to back track, there must be another way.
With nostrils full of brimstone, she traces the red slash a short way around the mountain's base, unsure what she is looking for. She treads deeper, until the only light comes off the magma and everything reflects its crimson glow, but here, under the ledge of the cliff above, where no sunlight shines and few plants grow, here she finds what she is after. The river of fire is split like a braid, twisting around jet-black rock formations. They are - more or less - within leaping distance of one another. Absent-mindedly, Popinjay tongues the stone still in her mouth, and in the next instant she is galloping straight ahead, launching herself at the first table-topped rock. She lands with a clatter of hoof on stone, charges for the next, and the next, throwing herself with abandon. Something, some cautious, adult, thing inside her, quails at the last jump, and she misses her take-off. When she lands on the far bank, it is too near the edge and she slides backwards with a squeal, hooves scrambling for purchase on the burning rocks. The smell of burning hair is her searing hoof just inches above the flow, but the tip of her toe finally catches an edge and pushes off, pushes her up just enough. It breaks under her weight as she pulls away from danger, the rock splashing into the magma with a <I>WUNK</I>, send spray reaching across her haunches, burning relentlessly, and she takes off in a blind panic, bucking.
It is late when she arrives at the castle, and the filly does not know how she got there from the red river, does not remember the journey, she only recalls the white-hot pain, the smell of burnt skin, and running. She does not see the face in the window. It is not until she comes before the unreadable dragon that she awakens from her stupor and comes to a halt. She's never seen a dragon before, and she isn't sure exactly what to do with it at first, only cocks her head to one side. <I>It looks like a big lizard,</I> she thinks,<I> and lizards are just a kind of bird.</I> She reasons this, incorrectly, from the fact that they both lay eggs, and since she is not afraid of birds, has even befriended a rare few, she decides that she is also not afraid of this creature. She is not, however, in any mood to make new friends just now. She feints a charge, stopping in a cloud of dust, and tossing her head in its direction. The dragon is unfazed, doesn't even flinch, but the yearling did not cross a river of flaming death just to die cowering in the face of a lizard. She charges again, mouth gaping wide, her stone finally falling away as she throws herself at the beast, grabs recklessly onto a wing too slow to pull away. Her sore hooves hit dirt again and she shakes her head as though to rip the wing away. All around her, golden light flickers to life, illuminating the courtyard.
<I>"Excuse me!"</I> The voice pierces through the night like a bell, "Would you <I>mind</I> not destroying my topiary?"
It takes some time before the yearling lifts her head with clear eyes, but several minutes later, she does. As she rises, her gaze sweeps the canopy above, a troupe of howler monkeys is navigating from branch to branch and noisy green birds swoop among the leaves with ease. For her part, she charges forward in fits and starts, stopping periodically to test the edges of the path, to nose a red flower, to snatch a pretty stone in her mouth as the Sphinx had so recently done to her. The stone rolls over her tongue and clicks against her teeth as the yearling meanders along, her mood darkening, tired of the narrow trail. <I>This</I> is not fun, it is dull and dreary and she hates it, hates the packed earth under her hooves and the feeling of being trapped, hates the way the air feels too thick to breathe. It is too much. From utter stillness, the dark bay becomes a flurry of action, angry hooves tearing at the undergrowth, she will <I>make</I> the way herself, if she must. A small, dark hole opens before her and she thrusts her nose into it, her head, and, slowly, squirms through it like a snake shedding its skin until she is on the other side, finds herself in a dense jungle with no path and no direction. If she were not already lost, she might be more worried about <I>becoming</I> lost, but instead she darts forward and away as rain begins to fall.
The rain is brief, but torrential, quickly washing sweat from her coat and replacing it with black mud. Popinjay slips and slides haphazardly and is soon covered in a thick layer of it from the belly down with mad splashes up her haunches and across her face. Her star is lost, her mane and tail caked and tangled and encrusted with bits of leaf and wood, and a shining black-and-white beetle stuck upside-down near her ear. It whirrs and clicks angrily at her, discontent with its circumstances. Popinjay, however, is bright once again, she is utterly lost and doesn't care a bit. The sound of rushing water draws her nearer and she chases it through the last of the rain, but what she finds is not simply rapids. She is struck with the scent of sulfur as magma rolls into the river, boiling and hissing. The way forward is not immediately obvious, in truth, there appears to be no way across and Popinjay frowns and wrinkles her nose, thinking hard. She is at the very base of a mountain that is surrounded by the melted rock and the only way across, high above her, is a limp bridge. She is certain that her original path must have led directly to it, why else have such a path, and such a bridge? But she has not come so far to back track, there must be another way.
With nostrils full of brimstone, she traces the red slash a short way around the mountain's base, unsure what she is looking for. She treads deeper, until the only light comes off the magma and everything reflects its crimson glow, but here, under the ledge of the cliff above, where no sunlight shines and few plants grow, here she finds what she is after. The river of fire is split like a braid, twisting around jet-black rock formations. They are - more or less - within leaping distance of one another. Absent-mindedly, Popinjay tongues the stone still in her mouth, and in the next instant she is galloping straight ahead, launching herself at the first table-topped rock. She lands with a clatter of hoof on stone, charges for the next, and the next, throwing herself with abandon. Something, some cautious, adult, thing inside her, quails at the last jump, and she misses her take-off. When she lands on the far bank, it is too near the edge and she slides backwards with a squeal, hooves scrambling for purchase on the burning rocks. The smell of burning hair is her searing hoof just inches above the flow, but the tip of her toe finally catches an edge and pushes off, pushes her up just enough. It breaks under her weight as she pulls away from danger, the rock splashing into the magma with a <I>WUNK</I>, send spray reaching across her haunches, burning relentlessly, and she takes off in a blind panic, bucking.
It is late when she arrives at the castle, and the filly does not know how she got there from the red river, does not remember the journey, she only recalls the white-hot pain, the smell of burnt skin, and running. She does not see the face in the window. It is not until she comes before the unreadable dragon that she awakens from her stupor and comes to a halt. She's never seen a dragon before, and she isn't sure exactly what to do with it at first, only cocks her head to one side. <I>It looks like a big lizard,</I> she thinks,<I> and lizards are just a kind of bird.</I> She reasons this, incorrectly, from the fact that they both lay eggs, and since she is not afraid of birds, has even befriended a rare few, she decides that she is also not afraid of this creature. She is not, however, in any mood to make new friends just now. She feints a charge, stopping in a cloud of dust, and tossing her head in its direction. The dragon is unfazed, doesn't even flinch, but the yearling did not cross a river of flaming death just to die cowering in the face of a lizard. She charges again, mouth gaping wide, her stone finally falling away as she throws herself at the beast, grabs recklessly onto a wing too slow to pull away. Her sore hooves hit dirt again and she shakes her head as though to rip the wing away. All around her, golden light flickers to life, illuminating the courtyard.
<I>"Excuse me!"</I> The voice pierces through the night like a bell, "Would you <I>mind</I> not destroying my topiary?"
