Their shared joke leads to a delightful change. Straia suddenly shrinks and Popinjay drops her head low to hover just above the tiny mare, yet she no sooner does this than grows to an enormous size, and the bold little bay reaches out to nip harmlessly at the impossibly large fetlock that looms large in her field of vision where only moments before a mouse-sized mare had stood.
"You should be careful about turning so small, you might end up in an owl pellet."
She ignores the obvious, that Straia is a powerful creature, unlikely to be at a disadvantage against the average owl no matter how small, and certainly not with the ravens to look after her and mob any hungry raptors that might come looking to make a meal of the corvid queen.
They are close enough that when the dark bird settles on its master's withers, her soft breath of greeting parts the down on its chest, and she ruffles her own black and red feathers noisily against her back, before willing them away entirely. For a moment, her expression could almost be considered reflective, the heady scent of the Pampa's flowering meadows drifts across her memory and makes her ears twist back, but the bright grin leaps there again in an instant.
"Bored, everything else seems to have shrunk, too." Or perhaps it is only the people in it, who had time for the fantasies of a child but find the same manner in a mare grown distasteful, annoying.
"Nerine sleeps," Her head tilts to one side, thoughtfully, "The Northerners need waking up, but it will take more than a small fire to shake the cold from their bones."
@[Straia]
