01-05-2020, 06:51 PM
The bird doesn't love woodland, but she was raised between the trees and has no fear of the confined spaces, of the shadows and twisting paths that lead nowhere. She has raced every inch of Taiga, surely, in three years, explored caves and canyons and clouds, and now she slips through the oak and evergreens that make up the Forest with the ease of any other shadow. Deep within, she feels the bird ruffle its feathers, irritated, uncomfortable, but she brushes that aside and plunges ever deeper into the murk and gloom of this Forest until the signs of other horses become fewer, fainter. Where the birds flutter fast and low, rustling in the undergrowth and digging through the damp, decaying leaves in search of larva and insects. Their calls are strange, haunting and alien here, and across her skin, a thrill of the unusual. Strange things always happen deep in the woods.
Not all that travel do so quietly. A female voice catches her attention and two small, dark ears swivel in the direction of the sharp command - grey hooves are quick to follow.
Poppy does not know any monsters. Or, perhaps better to say that she is unaware of any monsters in her acquaintance, but she does not fear them. The creature strung together of bone and tooth and antler draws her attention right away, but she is not afraid. Mahogany eyes alight. That's new. But it is not who the raven-black mare is addressing. It takes a moment to separate him from the dappled darkness, he is black in a way that the other mare is not, he is skeletal in a way that the Thing beside her is not. Her head tilts, bird-like, pretending poorly at caution. Then, a familiar sly smile grows on her lips. She creeps further, closer. Never mind the dark strangers, her eyes are on the beast of bones. Can it see her? Hear her? It seems to have neither eyes or ears, is it conscious? Ever nearer between the trees until she can reach around the broad trunk of a creaking, old, oak, until she is close enough for eager teeth to snake out and seek grip on one of its legs, to pull and see if the whole thing will come to pieces.
Not all that travel do so quietly. A female voice catches her attention and two small, dark ears swivel in the direction of the sharp command - grey hooves are quick to follow.
Poppy does not know any monsters. Or, perhaps better to say that she is unaware of any monsters in her acquaintance, but she does not fear them. The creature strung together of bone and tooth and antler draws her attention right away, but she is not afraid. Mahogany eyes alight. That's new. But it is not who the raven-black mare is addressing. It takes a moment to separate him from the dappled darkness, he is black in a way that the other mare is not, he is skeletal in a way that the Thing beside her is not. Her head tilts, bird-like, pretending poorly at caution. Then, a familiar sly smile grows on her lips. She creeps further, closer. Never mind the dark strangers, her eyes are on the beast of bones. Can it see her? Hear her? It seems to have neither eyes or ears, is it conscious? Ever nearer between the trees until she can reach around the broad trunk of a creaking, old, oak, until she is close enough for eager teeth to snake out and seek grip on one of its legs, to pull and see if the whole thing will come to pieces.
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
