05-13-2017, 08:33 PM
The Forest was too quiet. It was the sort of quiet that came with death and deep, unnatural slumber and that quiet was an uncomfortable juxtaposition against the small figure of the palomino filly. Whispering down from somewhere in the very brief history of her life (or maybe it was from further back, in the generations before her), was a different quiet – the quiet of sand whispering over sand, of moisture sizzling up from the ground, of life scrabbling for survival just out of site. The heat and lassitude of some forgotten desert was called up by the sheen of gold along her flank as she walked, swinging her hips, and the pulsing heat of blood beneath the surface, meeting cold dense air in the winter of Beqanna.
She had moved, hovered we could say, along the edge of the treeline for more than an hour that morning, pretending to follow the trail of a field mouse that had scampered over the freshly fallen snow, but it was the trees that really held her fascination. It was not immediately clear who the charade of the little footprint sleuth was meant for. There was no one else this morning to see her there, so perhaps it was from the trees themselves she was concealing her surreptitious attention. Ultimately, an hour or so before the sun was really at its peak, and about fifteen minutes after the trail of the little field mouse had been well and truly lost, she stopped her fidgeting walk and turned to face the treeline.
She was well-favoured by the sun overhead, whose light, despite its distance and its warmthless rays, seemed to pay special attention to the pale palomino filly. She was a radiant gold, the shine of her coat still metallic and smooth despite the season. Flaxen hair at her neck and her tail were lifted in an indistinct pale halo around her by the breeze across the meadow. She fixed clear blue eyes into the darkness just beyond the nearby trunks, determination steeling itself across delicate, desert-forged features. She twitched her tail, as though in rebellion of the quiet and the stillness that lay ahead of her. If she had waited any longer, it could have been said she was hesitating, but she plunged forward.
Despite the fiercely determined mask she was wearing, her steps were oddly light, bouncing over the frozen ground in an unnecessary, noisy cadence like the drumbeat of a child’s playtime melody. A dozen short strides was all it took to bring her completely underneath the canopy. Something about the immediate, smothering stillness slowed the patter of her feet gradually until, after only another dozen paces, she too was still, like the subdued winter cathedral around her.
She stamped her foot, as though to break through that quiet, and then broke into a run, little golden feet barely touching the ground as she moved, straight as she could between the trees overhead. Some signal that was inaudible, imperceptible – or imaginary – brought her up short about a mile from where she had started. Panting, she stared around her, wide blue eyes, like the sky somewhere above them, obscured by the snow-laden canopy that hung between. She appeared to be looking for something in particular, and made a show of turning all the way around as she looked, craning her neck to try to see around the obscuring trunks. Finally, after she had turned three hundred and sixty degrees, and even ducked her head to check under broken tree nearby, the light of recognition and relief sparked across her face. Prevail stood there, bay coat subtly different than the forest palate behind her, indigo points darkened by the seemingly lightless halls of this place.
The child’s expression changed drastically then, cracking into exuberance, laughter falling musically from her lips as she sprang toward the older filly. With the impetuous confidence of her youth and the learned adoration of being slight, fragile and pretty she bowled into the horned stranger’s personal space and then, beyond that, slowing her momentum just as she reached the other girl she pressed her impossibly warm body against Prevail’s, stretching herself along the other’s flank, cat-like, proprietary. Looking over her shoulder, through the half-veil of her forelock and with the coquettish, suddenly shy gaze of a lonely child she said; “Can I stay with you?” as though the quiet of the wood was infectious, her voice was soft, strained by its softness, and trembled.
She had moved, hovered we could say, along the edge of the treeline for more than an hour that morning, pretending to follow the trail of a field mouse that had scampered over the freshly fallen snow, but it was the trees that really held her fascination. It was not immediately clear who the charade of the little footprint sleuth was meant for. There was no one else this morning to see her there, so perhaps it was from the trees themselves she was concealing her surreptitious attention. Ultimately, an hour or so before the sun was really at its peak, and about fifteen minutes after the trail of the little field mouse had been well and truly lost, she stopped her fidgeting walk and turned to face the treeline.
She was well-favoured by the sun overhead, whose light, despite its distance and its warmthless rays, seemed to pay special attention to the pale palomino filly. She was a radiant gold, the shine of her coat still metallic and smooth despite the season. Flaxen hair at her neck and her tail were lifted in an indistinct pale halo around her by the breeze across the meadow. She fixed clear blue eyes into the darkness just beyond the nearby trunks, determination steeling itself across delicate, desert-forged features. She twitched her tail, as though in rebellion of the quiet and the stillness that lay ahead of her. If she had waited any longer, it could have been said she was hesitating, but she plunged forward.
Despite the fiercely determined mask she was wearing, her steps were oddly light, bouncing over the frozen ground in an unnecessary, noisy cadence like the drumbeat of a child’s playtime melody. A dozen short strides was all it took to bring her completely underneath the canopy. Something about the immediate, smothering stillness slowed the patter of her feet gradually until, after only another dozen paces, she too was still, like the subdued winter cathedral around her.
She stamped her foot, as though to break through that quiet, and then broke into a run, little golden feet barely touching the ground as she moved, straight as she could between the trees overhead. Some signal that was inaudible, imperceptible – or imaginary – brought her up short about a mile from where she had started. Panting, she stared around her, wide blue eyes, like the sky somewhere above them, obscured by the snow-laden canopy that hung between. She appeared to be looking for something in particular, and made a show of turning all the way around as she looked, craning her neck to try to see around the obscuring trunks. Finally, after she had turned three hundred and sixty degrees, and even ducked her head to check under broken tree nearby, the light of recognition and relief sparked across her face. Prevail stood there, bay coat subtly different than the forest palate behind her, indigo points darkened by the seemingly lightless halls of this place.
The child’s expression changed drastically then, cracking into exuberance, laughter falling musically from her lips as she sprang toward the older filly. With the impetuous confidence of her youth and the learned adoration of being slight, fragile and pretty she bowled into the horned stranger’s personal space and then, beyond that, slowing her momentum just as she reached the other girl she pressed her impossibly warm body against Prevail’s, stretching herself along the other’s flank, cat-like, proprietary. Looking over her shoulder, through the half-veil of her forelock and with the coquettish, suddenly shy gaze of a lonely child she said; “Can I stay with you?” as though the quiet of the wood was infectious, her voice was soft, strained by its softness, and trembled.
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