And so it seems that Weir's relentless prattle has opened the door of possibility. What if? What if? What if? Isn't it always so? One can never be sure of where the path might lead, but they may take into consideration all outcomes. They could, he did, but they might- and that makes all the difference.
His ears swivel to listen, and perhaps a bit of worry leaks from Fynnegan. "Too right, but are any of us ever prepared?" He hums, bobbing his head as he walks, enjoying the reckless abandon of time. "Ah, but not to worry, there is plenty you can do I am sure of it! Just set your mind to it and fear not, destiny will find a way." A gentle smile spreads above his whiskered chin, he held hope that good could prevail. Perhaps it would too, if enough believed, and the agreement of his new friend is joyful. Come to the Dale he would, and Weir would be more than happy to take him.
He starts a bit in surprise, receiving a light nip on his forearm. With a dash the black pony leaps away, taking off with a teasing call. A giant? Him? Never! "Oh-ho you rascal you!" He chides in good nature, before giving a trot in his companions direction. "Tally ho!" He yells, tossing his head and sending his ginger hair flying about his face. Unsurprisingly he soon nears Fynnegan's rear, with a chortle he neighs loudly. "And Weir brings up the rear, vying for first place against the peoples favorite, Fynnegan the mighty." He does his best radio voice, calling the race as if over a loud speaker. "Ladies and Gentleman can he do it?" He squints his eyes to feign a look of determination.
Then he decides to up the fun factor, deftly disappearing from his racemate's left side and popping into appearance on his right. "I naughty move by Weir, that dastardly trickster!" He announces, still enjoying his play by play. Though as they near the Meadow's edge it is clear that Fynnegan will win, and Weir loses dramatically. The roan flops to the earth in a plague of shame. "Say it isn't so, cursed to be a giant!" He groans with exasperation, tossing his head to the grass.
WEIR
If you hurt me, that's okay baby, only words bleed
