The small mare catches Popinjay's attention and she is watching her from the shadows, a shade of shadow herself, black-bay coat blowing softly in the cold winter wind. Her fascination is not with the mare's size, or even her color - is everybody here golden? It is with something else. The filly is quiet in the way that birds are quiet when a stranger walks by, one they are not afraid of, but are still decidiing on, watchful and weighing, calculating. Is this stranger the sort to toss crumbs of bread, or to mount small birds on ladies' hats?
Perhaps those are not the exact thoughts running through the youth's mind.
She is sneaky when she wants to be. She often doesn't care, she is often brash and bold and charges about confident that the world will make room for her, and, so far, it has done so. But she can also be quiet. When she is doing something she knows she probably ought not do. For a moment, she turns away from her quarry, looking to be sure that Lethy is not nearby to stop her. Or to say something. The motherly mare is not immediately in sight, however, and cannot stop her young charge from this mischief. Dark eyes return to the mare at the creek. It's hard to sneak about when you don't know whether or not the one you are sneaking on can read your mind, or has eyes on their butt that are already watching you, but it doesn't stop her. It doesn't even cross her mind that the winged mare might already know that she is there.
It is hard to be quiet crossing the forest floor. Luckily, her hooves are very small, and the loamy ground is soft and damp, the leaves give way with almost no sound at all, and no traitorous stick snaps underfoot. She is the color of the forest beneath the canopy and has begun to take its scent as well, the smell of damp wood and smokey leaves and the mist that clings to the leaves like a veil. It is so hard to be quiet, but everything depends on it.
While the winged mare drinks, Popinjay approaches her side, wary of rear legs that can kick, but caution thrown otherwise to the wind. The chance must be taken! The object of her fascination becomes obvious now because she cannot keep her eyes off of them. Those feathered wings! A small muzzle reaches out, snakes out as quickly as it can, short, and very white, teeth bared as the small bay attempts to bite at the long, trailing, primaries.
Almost there...
Perhaps those are not the exact thoughts running through the youth's mind.
She is sneaky when she wants to be. She often doesn't care, she is often brash and bold and charges about confident that the world will make room for her, and, so far, it has done so. But she can also be quiet. When she is doing something she knows she probably ought not do. For a moment, she turns away from her quarry, looking to be sure that Lethy is not nearby to stop her. Or to say something. The motherly mare is not immediately in sight, however, and cannot stop her young charge from this mischief. Dark eyes return to the mare at the creek. It's hard to sneak about when you don't know whether or not the one you are sneaking on can read your mind, or has eyes on their butt that are already watching you, but it doesn't stop her. It doesn't even cross her mind that the winged mare might already know that she is there.
It is hard to be quiet crossing the forest floor. Luckily, her hooves are very small, and the loamy ground is soft and damp, the leaves give way with almost no sound at all, and no traitorous stick snaps underfoot. She is the color of the forest beneath the canopy and has begun to take its scent as well, the smell of damp wood and smokey leaves and the mist that clings to the leaves like a veil. It is so hard to be quiet, but everything depends on it.
While the winged mare drinks, Popinjay approaches her side, wary of rear legs that can kick, but caution thrown otherwise to the wind. The chance must be taken! The object of her fascination becomes obvious now because she cannot keep her eyes off of them. Those feathered wings! A small muzzle reaches out, snakes out as quickly as it can, short, and very white, teeth bared as the small bay attempts to bite at the long, trailing, primaries.
Almost there...
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
@[Lepis]
