09-13-2016, 10:42 AM
Their laughter draws her attention, more so than their ghost-white skin they dance amongst the stiff-backed trees. They remind her of pups as they tumble together, mock fighting and growling in play. That is how they learn to be adults. Wessex never had any siblings to play with, nor any friends to tag and dart away from. She laughs infrequently, and when she does, she thinks it discordant and jarring.
One part of the little warrior thinks the laughter is meant to disarm her and get her guard down. A distraction, while someone else pounces. A quick scan of the immediate vicinity doesn’t reveal anyone, but of course, she could not be sure. The smells here are unfamiliar. What is normally out of place, she might currently register as ‘normal.’ They come closer, and Wessex turns back to look at the group of mares who are still talking, and takes all their security upon herself. She does not know that they are perfectly capable of handling much that comes their way. She knows nothing. And no one.
Grateful that her wings haven’t yet disappeared (and simultaneously prepared for the pain of disintegration and regrowth), the black yearling stomps her hooves to keep herself warm and get her blood moving. Upon further examination (as she is sure they make of her), their faces appear kind and curious, and guileless. As if they’ve been happy their whole lives. Their bodies are unscathed and their eyes untroubled. How peculiar. “Hello,” she replies quietly, while her eyes dart between the two newcomers and what lies beyond them. How did they not know what a guard does? “If I have to. That’s what lookout’s do.” She says it so matter of factly, as if it were common knowledge and her actions completely normal.
“What are you two doing?” she asks in return. Genuinely puzzled, because they must have been sent out by someone, for something.
One part of the little warrior thinks the laughter is meant to disarm her and get her guard down. A distraction, while someone else pounces. A quick scan of the immediate vicinity doesn’t reveal anyone, but of course, she could not be sure. The smells here are unfamiliar. What is normally out of place, she might currently register as ‘normal.’ They come closer, and Wessex turns back to look at the group of mares who are still talking, and takes all their security upon herself. She does not know that they are perfectly capable of handling much that comes their way. She knows nothing. And no one.
Grateful that her wings haven’t yet disappeared (and simultaneously prepared for the pain of disintegration and regrowth), the black yearling stomps her hooves to keep herself warm and get her blood moving. Upon further examination (as she is sure they make of her), their faces appear kind and curious, and guileless. As if they’ve been happy their whole lives. Their bodies are unscathed and their eyes untroubled. How peculiar. “Hello,” she replies quietly, while her eyes dart between the two newcomers and what lies beyond them. How did they not know what a guard does? “If I have to. That’s what lookout’s do.” She says it so matter of factly, as if it were common knowledge and her actions completely normal.
“What are you two doing?” she asks in return. Genuinely puzzled, because they must have been sent out by someone, for something.