the darkest nights produce the brightest stars
Fennick wasn’t the type of awkward that didn’t realize it was awkward. He sighed into it, and somehow embraced the wave of uneasiness like an old friend. “Oh there you are,” he would say when the mortification returned after a particularly savvy spell. Now was one of this times. He grinned and chuckled self deprecatingly.
“No.” He said, not unpleasantly.
“From where I’m standing you do seem to be very much alive.” And it was true. She did seem to be managing the grass alright. Still, it was easy to manage in spring. All around them babies grew fat off their mother’s milk while those mothers grew plump on delicate fresh shoots. He shot his companion a wry smile.
“I bet you wouldn’t talk such a big game if you ate some pine needles. They’re everywhere back home, and let me tell you, they do not go down easy.” Now, maybe this wasn’t the most tantalizing of conversations. Maybe she had very little interest in the inner working of Fennick’s gut. She could be left to wonder how continued survival could be construed as, “talking a big game.” None of this could be helped. He was about to make some witty remark about how mares should admire a man with a strong constitution (such as one who could eat pine needles) when another stallion approached. He didn’t recognize the man, but that wasn’t particularly surprising. Fennick wasn’t exactly a man about town.
“Skullu.” He said in acknowledgement.
“I’m Fennick.” He said companionably. He looked back at his new friend for a moment and smiled.
“We’ve determined that the grass is edible and are attempting to find new avenues of conversation.” That wasn’t exactly true. Fennick has attempted to start up a conversation and had, as far as he could tell, been roundly shot down. However, if Fennick had gave up every time a mare gave him a funny look he would never make it past hello. Perseverance was best learned from a young age.