HOCKETY, POCKETY, WOCKETY, WACK
Late? Weir does not know late. He knows now, he knows then, before, after. But late, no, never late.
He watches lazily, as the others take to the sky, swimming through air currents as he munched on dying grass. Amber gaze following the patterns before they are turned to the attention their directions take. It wasn’t often that he greeted newcomers, there weren’t really many to greet. Today would be a treat, though it did not persuade him to move any faster than normal. He crept along, taking his time, arriving long after the others. Most of the others. He caught the tail end of the conversation, the last bit of the silvered mare’s exchange.
He would have preferred to start the conversation with a name, but her sentence ruffles him. Had she been pregnant? So he had just left her behind to find for herself and the child? He felt his temperature creeping up, had he been a human man his face would be flushed in anger. The little mare was very slight in structure, the little whelp barely born, melting into its Mother’s side. Weir absolutely adored children, he thought very highly of them, prioritized them at the very top. This, this was enough to set fire to the docile stallions nature.
His russet dial falls, dipping itself to the pony-sized womans level, eye to eye. ”Excuse me dear, you say you were left alone? Birthing your child?” His eyes jerk up rather pointedly at the stallion whom she appeared to have followed after. He gruffled, the situation entirely preposterous. ”I say that is now way to treat a lady. Just left her behind, and your daughter!” Ridiculous! He turned his head, neck twisting, peering to both Ramiel and Elysteria, nostrils flared.
**bows** your welcome