It startles her when he falls, a flash of blue and gold legs tangled and tumbling, flailing briefly in the air as the colt hits the ground, too new to be running, and she rockets forward, haunches tucked under her, growing tail pressed down tight, and eyes rolling. What is he doing? But the answer becomes clear quickly and after a moment she circles back around, near to where Lethy nudges him gently, helping him back up onto slender legs. Unhurt, he rises, and Popinjay dances impatiently, then takes off once more with a squeal and a jump, leading the following colt through a maze of woods.
“We’re going this way!” she exclaims, when he has caught up and questioned her. They are going this way, because it is the way to go. A light fog has settled low among the ferns and stirs as they pass by, swirling silver tendrils about their legs. For a moment she pauses, snorting into the mist to watch it curl and twist, and then, laughing brightly, the filly rears, walking a short distance on her back feet before scrabbling up onto time-flattened slabs of rock, covered in green moss. Reaching down from above, she bends her knees, wrinkled nose passing through the air above Owin’s head. Her hooves ring against the hard stone and reverberate off the tree trunks that surround them. She has no idea if the colt can climb onto the rocks, his body is still slight, without the musculature that he will have in even just a few days time, but it is not necessary to cross the creek her way, it is quite shallow here.
The water flows flat and glossy across the shelf of rocks, trickling back onto the ancient creekbed where Owin stands and leaving a small dark cave only big enough for water beetles and spiders. Popinjay knows from trying to crawl inside the first time she came here, receiving only a sore bite on the nose for her trouble. She rubs her muzzle against her shoulder at the memory, and then crosses the creek, trip-trap-trip-trap, splashing sparkling water up so it beads on her coat and falls below where her brother stands.
They are not far now, but she waits, letting the buckskin take his time.
“If you fall, don’t tell Lethy it was my fault.”
“We’re going this way!” she exclaims, when he has caught up and questioned her. They are going this way, because it is the way to go. A light fog has settled low among the ferns and stirs as they pass by, swirling silver tendrils about their legs. For a moment she pauses, snorting into the mist to watch it curl and twist, and then, laughing brightly, the filly rears, walking a short distance on her back feet before scrabbling up onto time-flattened slabs of rock, covered in green moss. Reaching down from above, she bends her knees, wrinkled nose passing through the air above Owin’s head. Her hooves ring against the hard stone and reverberate off the tree trunks that surround them. She has no idea if the colt can climb onto the rocks, his body is still slight, without the musculature that he will have in even just a few days time, but it is not necessary to cross the creek her way, it is quite shallow here.
The water flows flat and glossy across the shelf of rocks, trickling back onto the ancient creekbed where Owin stands and leaving a small dark cave only big enough for water beetles and spiders. Popinjay knows from trying to crawl inside the first time she came here, receiving only a sore bite on the nose for her trouble. She rubs her muzzle against her shoulder at the memory, and then crosses the creek, trip-trap-trip-trap, splashing sparkling water up so it beads on her coat and falls below where her brother stands.
They are not far now, but she waits, letting the buckskin take his time.
“If you fall, don’t tell Lethy it was my fault.”
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
