if one is left to their own devices, it is not uncommon to find oneself throwing inhibition to the wind.

i remember, long ago, back to a time when the woman was yet no more than a child still- and a child orphaned, nonetheless, just as the story of her life was about to unfold. but when one has no sire or dam, no guardian or keepers, or even a conscience to hobble the imagination- good intentions aside- one may find adventures borne of curiosity are not always such good ideas as they seem. and so it was for the girl-child, that her willowy legs became tangled in the wind that billows inward from the shores, urging her onward past sand and driftwood, sweet-smelling swaying meadow grasses, past dips and hollows and rock-strewn hillocks, until the land grows fierce and ruffled, raising feather-like trees in hackles thrust upwards against the sky. by this time, autumn has burrowed soundly into the lowlands of beqanna, and so the lush late-summer grasses lay hunched and damp, the slightly misty air smelling robust with fallen leaves and blackened soil- a hint of rot even- while a scattering of raindrops fall haltingly from the drifting gray clouds from time to time.

if she had been wiser, or more cautious, or even more knowing of the intricate workings of the world, she might never have ventured so far and so often in those days. but she was none of those things- not yet. for how could she be, without trial and error and experience of the years guiding her hand? in a land rich with history, of magic and legends, of gods and demons, she was a lost little muggle with mudblood and ragged clothes in the sight of so many grander beings. she had no idea of such notions, however- but if she did, she may have wondered why it was that she had been safe thus far, to pass unharassed on her missions to explore the unknown. perhaps it was the scent of lagertha, the scarred and knowing shield maiden she had met just after washing up in the tide, her scent clinging still to her baby-fur... or perhaps it was simply luck alone.

but amongst the lichened trunks and fern-strewn paths of the ancient forest, the air was thin and hushed. this was not to mean that whistles, grunts, and snapping twigs did not echo sharply from afar, but rather simply that the movements of the forest had dimmed and grew lethargic, waiting for the morning chill to pass and rouse the inhabitants back into wakefulness.

the child moves in tandem to a deer trail that had been downtrodden to rich soil amongst the lush stalks of leafy greenery, though her own path swerves haphazardly over, across, and back once more. her eyes take in the foreign sights and myriad of curiosities that draw her attention briefly unto themselves. it was following one such detour, the result of an investigation into the falling of a shockingly golden autumn leaf (which left it plastered to the topside of her muzzle), that the child returns to discover a mound of gritty soil marring the dirt trail ahead. of course, when one stumbles upon a mysterious pile of anything, it is well known that one must rise to the challenge of conquering it as king  (or queen) of the hill. and so the girl sets her mind to pummeling the sandy mound, showering the nearby surroundings with sprays of sand and flying grime.

should she have had proverbial hands, when all was said and done, the girl would have brushed them together a few times and smiled in satisfaction at a job well done. quite unbeknownst to her, however, besides the thousand sticky-wet grains of sand that clung to her baby-fur in clumps were more than several handfuls of red-armoured ants, more than a little upset at the unexpected annihilation of their home.

and so i try not to chuckle as i count down from five on one hand, unsurprised when a startled shriek rings out through the forest and a muddy blur goes crashing through the underbrush. amidst the startling stings and bites, the young filly nips frantically at her sides, her legs, her chest; bucking and curling against the rough bark of the old, weathered trunks as she struggles to rid herself of the enemy. this may have continued indefinitely, had a small front hoof not slipped on the dewy grass of an embankment, flipping the girl over to tumble down the slick sides and into the chipper waters of a healthy creek below.

although she could not have helped making such a spectacle of herself, upon righting herself in the now-rippling waters, the girl simply leaves her rump plunked into the shallows, enjoying the sudden freedom from her recent barrage. and while she waits for the cool waters to nurse the painful stinging sensation from her welted skin, if one chances a look at her ears, they would find them definitively flattened entirely to her skull. for horses do not blush as we do, with cheeks aflame and scrunched up brows, though the feelings are much the same.

and so she sits sullenly, eyes narrowed dangerously at the riptides while her thoughts mull testily around, understanding a little too late that even the smallest of beasts deserve more than a flippant disregard.