08-15-2019, 09:43 AM
Is it safe?
Owin’s question lingers in her ears, but Popinjay is loath to think on it too much. Althought the black and wet cavern yawning at their feet concerns her, she is eager to climb the tree, eager to walk across the bridge of the tree, to be blown by the wind that tosses the Taigan fog into its dance over the ravine. She snorts, scoffing at his worry, blowing it it out of her mind in a noisy rush of air, and then angles a grin at him that says nothing about caution or discretion.
“Plenty safe!” Indeed, the trunk is wide enough that they could walk side by side and still have room, such is the giant nature of the redwood trees. And though it narrows at the other end, it doesn’t do so significantly enough that their added weight is likely to cause the slightest stir. Her mind is made up. It was made up ages ago, the only matter is to find the way. Even running, it’s too high for a straight jump up, but Popinjay is an avid climber, her skills honed on the rock caves scattered near the Taigan boundaries, and so she traces the edge of the tree, head cocked to one side in thought. Carefully, she skirts the mouth of the cavern, and on the other side, the gnarled roots of the aged tree, some still deep in the earth, form a tangled staircase for nimble feet. She strikes the wood with a forefoot, testing it, nicking the thick bark and thinks that Owin could maybe climb this, if he wanted to. He got up those rocks, after all.
She peeks back around the exposed root ball where the gold and blue colt stands, ears pressed forward and eyes bright with her plans.
“We can get up on this side, Owin! But you don’t have to come with, if you don’t want, cuz we’ll be awfully high up.” And with that, she pulls her head back out of sight and, squealing, charges the side of the tree, small hooves scrambling on the slick wood, slipping, scuffing knees and balancing off her nose until, at last, she crawls, puffing heavily, atop the fallen tree. It had been more work than she let on, but she says nothing of that to Owin. The height makes her giddy, at its base, she is nearly twenty feet off the ground. Even here, the vibration of the wind makes the wood tremble softly.
Heart fluttering, Popinjay steps forward, placing her steps slowly, carefully, until she stands just at the edge of the ravine underneath. The wind ruffles her mane, snatching at it greedily, pulling the air away even as her nostrils try to draw it in, giving the faintest feeling of suffocation. It whistles in her ears and deafens her to the usual sounds of Taiga, no longer does she hear the gentle rustle of the breeze in the leaves and ferns, or even Owin’s voice, below. Her eyes are full of the ravine and her head full of the feeling of soaring.
Owin’s question lingers in her ears, but Popinjay is loath to think on it too much. Althought the black and wet cavern yawning at their feet concerns her, she is eager to climb the tree, eager to walk across the bridge of the tree, to be blown by the wind that tosses the Taigan fog into its dance over the ravine. She snorts, scoffing at his worry, blowing it it out of her mind in a noisy rush of air, and then angles a grin at him that says nothing about caution or discretion.
“Plenty safe!” Indeed, the trunk is wide enough that they could walk side by side and still have room, such is the giant nature of the redwood trees. And though it narrows at the other end, it doesn’t do so significantly enough that their added weight is likely to cause the slightest stir. Her mind is made up. It was made up ages ago, the only matter is to find the way. Even running, it’s too high for a straight jump up, but Popinjay is an avid climber, her skills honed on the rock caves scattered near the Taigan boundaries, and so she traces the edge of the tree, head cocked to one side in thought. Carefully, she skirts the mouth of the cavern, and on the other side, the gnarled roots of the aged tree, some still deep in the earth, form a tangled staircase for nimble feet. She strikes the wood with a forefoot, testing it, nicking the thick bark and thinks that Owin could maybe climb this, if he wanted to. He got up those rocks, after all.
She peeks back around the exposed root ball where the gold and blue colt stands, ears pressed forward and eyes bright with her plans.
“We can get up on this side, Owin! But you don’t have to come with, if you don’t want, cuz we’ll be awfully high up.” And with that, she pulls her head back out of sight and, squealing, charges the side of the tree, small hooves scrambling on the slick wood, slipping, scuffing knees and balancing off her nose until, at last, she crawls, puffing heavily, atop the fallen tree. It had been more work than she let on, but she says nothing of that to Owin. The height makes her giddy, at its base, she is nearly twenty feet off the ground. Even here, the vibration of the wind makes the wood tremble softly.
Heart fluttering, Popinjay steps forward, placing her steps slowly, carefully, until she stands just at the edge of the ravine underneath. The wind ruffles her mane, snatching at it greedily, pulling the air away even as her nostrils try to draw it in, giving the faintest feeling of suffocation. It whistles in her ears and deafens her to the usual sounds of Taiga, no longer does she hear the gentle rustle of the breeze in the leaves and ferns, or even Owin’s voice, below. Her eyes are full of the ravine and her head full of the feeling of soaring.
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
