08-09-2019, 07:42 PM
Popinjay stops swinging her stick to watch Owin peer over the edge of the ravine, and nudge the tree nut down into the wet cavern left by roots ripping free from the damp earth. Her ears flick forward, straining to hear the wet thudding sounds as it falls, striking the sides. At some point in its long life, the tree must have found an open space deep underneath itself, a cave with an entrance in the wall of the ravine, or perhaps simply an open place where plates of rock piled together eons ago, and slowly became the foundation of the forest. Anything could be down there.
“Oh, it’s definitely monsters.” She replies, sagely, letting the stick fall back to the ground, and joining the colt at the edge. There is nothing that either of them can see with normal equine vision, only a blank, black space that hums softly with the faint, distant sound of water moving past. An underground creek, or the vibration of the black water at the ravine’s very center, dark and tannic from centuries of decaying plant matter falling to its banks. Following the golden colt’s lead, she noses a rock – somewhat larger than the previous nut – over the edge, it rolls quickly out of sight and into inky darkness.
For once, even Popinjay is reluctant.
The open, airy caves of the rocks near the Hyaline border are something different, airy and relatively dry, and with some light filtering in beyond their mouths, they pique her interest, but are relatively safe. This black socket ripped into the earth makes her uneasy, for all that she also finds it fascinating. Feeling suddenly nervous, she thrusts her black muzzle out, pressing firmly against Owin’s chest, pushing him away from the great, dark wound as if the much more cautious colt needed the encouragment to stay back. Instead, her attention is turned to the massive trunk. Worried eyes turn bright again.
“Do you think we could get up there?”
“Oh, it’s definitely monsters.” She replies, sagely, letting the stick fall back to the ground, and joining the colt at the edge. There is nothing that either of them can see with normal equine vision, only a blank, black space that hums softly with the faint, distant sound of water moving past. An underground creek, or the vibration of the black water at the ravine’s very center, dark and tannic from centuries of decaying plant matter falling to its banks. Following the golden colt’s lead, she noses a rock – somewhat larger than the previous nut – over the edge, it rolls quickly out of sight and into inky darkness.
For once, even Popinjay is reluctant.
The open, airy caves of the rocks near the Hyaline border are something different, airy and relatively dry, and with some light filtering in beyond their mouths, they pique her interest, but are relatively safe. This black socket ripped into the earth makes her uneasy, for all that she also finds it fascinating. Feeling suddenly nervous, she thrusts her black muzzle out, pressing firmly against Owin’s chest, pushing him away from the great, dark wound as if the much more cautious colt needed the encouragment to stay back. Instead, her attention is turned to the massive trunk. Worried eyes turn bright again.
“Do you think we could get up there?”
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
