Her laughter bursts forth in an explosion of delight.
What is Popinjay doing so close to the Hyaline border? For that matter, what is she doing across it? The terrain is rockier and the evergreens smaller as the soil grows poorer and the elevation rises, and the dark filly is nimbly rock-hopping with the recklessness of a bighorn lamb, but not quite the same amount of skill. Scuffs and dirt smeared on her coat tell the story of her spills, and the broad star on her forehead is stained red after being sliced in a tumble down the hill.
But it isn’t that bad. Probably. She can’t actually see it, but the pain has ebbed away and she has returned to her games immediately, conquering the feet of the foothills and exploring the shallow caves. She is in one of these caves when the pale stallion passed by, glowing in the light, while she is all but invisible in the mouth of the cavern, only her star and the glint in her eyes to give her away. At first, she thinks he is an elk, although she has never seen a white one before, and that is what pulls her attention to him, but she sees quickly that he is not, rather another of this land’s odd horse-beasts, still, a fascinating one. Her nostrils flare, then crumple with his scent, he smells more like the rocky hills she has been playing in than the loam-and-leaf odor of the Taigan forest, and she steps deeper into the shadow with a scrutinizing gaze. Never mind that she is the actual intruder here, this stallion does not belong here. Small ears pin and she stamps her foot in irritation, thudding dully against the dirt floor. Where does he think he is going?
When he has passed and continued on his path, the filly finally peeks from around the end of darkness, curling her neck around the warm, grey, rock, pressing her small chest into it to peer after him, and – so slowly! – she steps out and begins tailing him. She wonders if he is as ornery as the bull-elk he resembles with those great antlers atop his head. Her steps slow a little more, but it is not hard to follow him, because even as the forest grows thicker and the light dims, he glows and is easy to find. Thus, Popinjay follows a stranger back to her home.
He stops, and she does as well, her own small hooves settling into the deep pockets made by his amethyst feet, and she watches in suspicious silence for a bit, waiting curiously to see what he will do. The Stranger seems to also consider this, a moment of indecision rippling around him, and then…
There is no sound to the explosion, but suddenly, silver fireflies dance and whirl, falling deftly to the ground like sparks and embers from a burning tree. She dodges them at first when they threaten to land on her, but, too slow, one strikes her nose. It flares up, silver and bright, and feels like nothing, but her vision temporarily darkens, except for the glimmering starfall and the moon-glow of the stallion. Unable to see anything else, she stumbles blindly toward him from behind.
What is Popinjay doing so close to the Hyaline border? For that matter, what is she doing across it? The terrain is rockier and the evergreens smaller as the soil grows poorer and the elevation rises, and the dark filly is nimbly rock-hopping with the recklessness of a bighorn lamb, but not quite the same amount of skill. Scuffs and dirt smeared on her coat tell the story of her spills, and the broad star on her forehead is stained red after being sliced in a tumble down the hill.
But it isn’t that bad. Probably. She can’t actually see it, but the pain has ebbed away and she has returned to her games immediately, conquering the feet of the foothills and exploring the shallow caves. She is in one of these caves when the pale stallion passed by, glowing in the light, while she is all but invisible in the mouth of the cavern, only her star and the glint in her eyes to give her away. At first, she thinks he is an elk, although she has never seen a white one before, and that is what pulls her attention to him, but she sees quickly that he is not, rather another of this land’s odd horse-beasts, still, a fascinating one. Her nostrils flare, then crumple with his scent, he smells more like the rocky hills she has been playing in than the loam-and-leaf odor of the Taigan forest, and she steps deeper into the shadow with a scrutinizing gaze. Never mind that she is the actual intruder here, this stallion does not belong here. Small ears pin and she stamps her foot in irritation, thudding dully against the dirt floor. Where does he think he is going?
When he has passed and continued on his path, the filly finally peeks from around the end of darkness, curling her neck around the warm, grey, rock, pressing her small chest into it to peer after him, and – so slowly! – she steps out and begins tailing him. She wonders if he is as ornery as the bull-elk he resembles with those great antlers atop his head. Her steps slow a little more, but it is not hard to follow him, because even as the forest grows thicker and the light dims, he glows and is easy to find. Thus, Popinjay follows a stranger back to her home.
He stops, and she does as well, her own small hooves settling into the deep pockets made by his amethyst feet, and she watches in suspicious silence for a bit, waiting curiously to see what he will do. The Stranger seems to also consider this, a moment of indecision rippling around him, and then…
There is no sound to the explosion, but suddenly, silver fireflies dance and whirl, falling deftly to the ground like sparks and embers from a burning tree. She dodges them at first when they threaten to land on her, but, too slow, one strikes her nose. It flares up, silver and bright, and feels like nothing, but her vision temporarily darkens, except for the glimmering starfall and the moon-glow of the stallion. Unable to see anything else, she stumbles blindly toward him from behind.
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
