03-24-2017, 07:56 AM
From the safety of a shaded thicket, Ivar watches the group. He has caught a glimpse of the butterfly that entrances them, but he has no interest in it. Instead, his focus is on the jewel bright collection of children, their blue and gold and mulberry coats a striking change to the shaded blacks, greys, and whites that he has assumed all horses were before. They are just as fascinating to him as they butterfly is to them. His own smoky black coat and mottled tobiano hide blends in well with the forsythia bush he shelters beneath, though the plethora of little flowers are starting to litter him with their yellow pollen. It’s a rather uncomfortable sensation, especially in his soft pink nose, and eventually that (and curiosity) force him into the sunlight.
He manages to look as though he’s just come through the brush rather than hiding in it, and he shakes the pollen from his velvety coat with an awkward shake. It almost unbalances him, but he catches himself, and moves closer. Despite his hesitation, he manages to smile, looking from one bright face to the next and wondering if this is perhaps what Mother meant when she spoke of the colors of parrots. She has the most wonderful tales and has even promised to change his colors, if he wants that. Ivar is a little doubtful. His mother is wonderful but she is just a small mouse grey mare, isn’t she? She has never used the magic from her stories in front of him, and though he is young he has already begun to wonder if she’s telling the truth. It never occurs to him that perhaps her lingering weariness is related to her lack of arcane feats.
Weariness is to be expected of course, having birth Ivar so late, but he can’t know that. He does notice that he is larger than some of the other children. Not older looking, and not of a heavier build – simply larger. A common side effect of remaining in utero a little too long, and one that won’t be noticeable in a few months, but still one that he notices, especially given that he is already lacking in their festive colors. Still, he smiles, because despite his nerves he is still implicitly trusting, and says: “Hi. I’m Ivar.”
He manages to look as though he’s just come through the brush rather than hiding in it, and he shakes the pollen from his velvety coat with an awkward shake. It almost unbalances him, but he catches himself, and moves closer. Despite his hesitation, he manages to smile, looking from one bright face to the next and wondering if this is perhaps what Mother meant when she spoke of the colors of parrots. She has the most wonderful tales and has even promised to change his colors, if he wants that. Ivar is a little doubtful. His mother is wonderful but she is just a small mouse grey mare, isn’t she? She has never used the magic from her stories in front of him, and though he is young he has already begun to wonder if she’s telling the truth. It never occurs to him that perhaps her lingering weariness is related to her lack of arcane feats.
Weariness is to be expected of course, having birth Ivar so late, but he can’t know that. He does notice that he is larger than some of the other children. Not older looking, and not of a heavier build – simply larger. A common side effect of remaining in utero a little too long, and one that won’t be noticeable in a few months, but still one that he notices, especially given that he is already lacking in their festive colors. Still, he smiles, because despite his nerves he is still implicitly trusting, and says: “Hi. I’m Ivar.”