At first, she was afraid of the river, afraid of the bubbling, roaring rapids, and the way the trees lined one side of it like an immovable army. She didn’t know what lay beyond it, and not knowing made her shy, fearful, made her hesitate at the water’s edge and spook and buck when it lapped gently at her stone-grey hooves. But that was another time, now, Popinjay knows what is beyond those tall sentinels. Now Popinjay lives in between the trees, and it comforts her to see them, waiting for her to come back across the shallows. For now, she ignores their beckoning, swaying in the warm summer breeze that bends their tops.
She splashes in the sparkling water, watching it glitter and gleam as it flies, chasing the shoals of minnows through the still puddles where they shelter from the heavier currents and the sunfish and bass and catfish that would prey upon them. They easily outswim her wild hooves as they land haphazardly with a heavy GLUMP GLUMP GLOWMP! They do not so easily outswim the small herons feeding a distance away, some of whom glower at the filly with black eyes both emotionless and angry in the way that only birds can accomplish. She ignores them as too serious and wheels about to race upstream at the very edge, the water’s spray soaking her dark coat until it looks black and slick, galloping until the dark shape of a raptor wheeling wildly in the air catches her eye. It dips suddenly, angling to the ground and laboring up, something small struggling in its claws, and for a moment, Popinjay wonders if Aten’s Turul has followed her even here, but surely not? She trots forward, catching a glimpse of the red tail, and no, this is certainly a different bird. The shadow in it’s grasp hangs from a single claw now and oh! It falls, hitting the turgid white water with barely even a splash, slipping into the foam and rocks with a scream lost to the roar of water.
The dark filly turns back around, running back to the shallows where the water runs more slowly and smooth as glass, the sandy pebbles churn underfoot and she makes slow progress. The creature has washed up, and Popinjay considers taking it back to Taiga for Turul – her hunting escapades here-to-fore having all been terrible disasters, the rabbits and squirrels of Taiga disappear when she walks by – but her game is quickly spoiled by a black colt that gets there first. Popinjay lays her ears flat and charges forward, in spite of the fact that he is clearly at least a year older than her. Her nostils flare and pinch, small lips drawn tight so her young teeth flash brilliant white.
“Hey! Hey that’s mine! Get away from it!” She shouts breathlessly, coming to a bouncing halt. She hasn’t even looked to see what it is, but has already decided that it belongs to her.
She splashes in the sparkling water, watching it glitter and gleam as it flies, chasing the shoals of minnows through the still puddles where they shelter from the heavier currents and the sunfish and bass and catfish that would prey upon them. They easily outswim her wild hooves as they land haphazardly with a heavy GLUMP GLUMP GLOWMP! They do not so easily outswim the small herons feeding a distance away, some of whom glower at the filly with black eyes both emotionless and angry in the way that only birds can accomplish. She ignores them as too serious and wheels about to race upstream at the very edge, the water’s spray soaking her dark coat until it looks black and slick, galloping until the dark shape of a raptor wheeling wildly in the air catches her eye. It dips suddenly, angling to the ground and laboring up, something small struggling in its claws, and for a moment, Popinjay wonders if Aten’s Turul has followed her even here, but surely not? She trots forward, catching a glimpse of the red tail, and no, this is certainly a different bird. The shadow in it’s grasp hangs from a single claw now and oh! It falls, hitting the turgid white water with barely even a splash, slipping into the foam and rocks with a scream lost to the roar of water.
The dark filly turns back around, running back to the shallows where the water runs more slowly and smooth as glass, the sandy pebbles churn underfoot and she makes slow progress. The creature has washed up, and Popinjay considers taking it back to Taiga for Turul – her hunting escapades here-to-fore having all been terrible disasters, the rabbits and squirrels of Taiga disappear when she walks by – but her game is quickly spoiled by a black colt that gets there first. Popinjay lays her ears flat and charges forward, in spite of the fact that he is clearly at least a year older than her. Her nostils flare and pinch, small lips drawn tight so her young teeth flash brilliant white.
“Hey! Hey that’s mine! Get away from it!” She shouts breathlessly, coming to a bouncing halt. She hasn’t even looked to see what it is, but has already decided that it belongs to her.
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
@[Morgayne] @[kildare]
