08-23-2019, 11:36 AM
For a moment, the filly is flying, eyes closed and air rushing against her face, and then she feels the gentle thrum of hooves treading carefully on wood, coming near her, and those dark eyes flutter open wide, glossy with excitement.
“Lethy!” Popinjay turns and hops nimbly forward, meeting the buckskin halfway. She can feel the stiffness and tension that grips her mother’s body, and counters it with her own suppleness, curling against her like a cat. The filly whuffs softly at the concern that make’s Lethy’s voice tight, as if she could ever fall, but the sadness of her words tickles in her ears and pulls her heart back to earth. The dark youth is not terribly accustomed to considering the emotions of those around her, she is selfish, as children often are, but empathy stirs in her belly, and she lifts her soft muzzle to brush against a warm, golden, shoulder in a wordless apology for causing the mare to worry.
Not for bolting across the tree, though.
For that Popinjay is unapologetic, and, standing quietly, her shoulder pressed firmly against Lethy’s, she peers over and down, the wind gusts causing her eyes to tear and run. It isn’t the sky or breathing fire that she wants, not specifically. No, the dark filly wants everything. Not with an ambitious, power-mad drive, but rather the longing that makes someone climb a mountain for no reason. She wants adventure.
“Nothing is gonna happen to me or Owin,” she says, with the blind faith of childhood, ignoring the obvious danger of standing on a tree overlooking a mysterious crack in the earth, “I’m not gonna fall, I never fell from this high.”
Of course, she also hasn’t ever been this high before. Perhaps this, among other things, is why her assurances seem to have no effect on the tension rippling across the buckskin's skin, and so, with a soft nod of agreement, she acquiesces to Lethy's request. Peering around the mare's chest to where Owin was last standing, she grins and snorts, and then turns for the opposite bank at a brisk walk.
“Lethy!” Popinjay turns and hops nimbly forward, meeting the buckskin halfway. She can feel the stiffness and tension that grips her mother’s body, and counters it with her own suppleness, curling against her like a cat. The filly whuffs softly at the concern that make’s Lethy’s voice tight, as if she could ever fall, but the sadness of her words tickles in her ears and pulls her heart back to earth. The dark youth is not terribly accustomed to considering the emotions of those around her, she is selfish, as children often are, but empathy stirs in her belly, and she lifts her soft muzzle to brush against a warm, golden, shoulder in a wordless apology for causing the mare to worry.
Not for bolting across the tree, though.
For that Popinjay is unapologetic, and, standing quietly, her shoulder pressed firmly against Lethy’s, she peers over and down, the wind gusts causing her eyes to tear and run. It isn’t the sky or breathing fire that she wants, not specifically. No, the dark filly wants everything. Not with an ambitious, power-mad drive, but rather the longing that makes someone climb a mountain for no reason. She wants adventure.
“Nothing is gonna happen to me or Owin,” she says, with the blind faith of childhood, ignoring the obvious danger of standing on a tree overlooking a mysterious crack in the earth, “I’m not gonna fall, I never fell from this high.”
Of course, she also hasn’t ever been this high before. Perhaps this, among other things, is why her assurances seem to have no effect on the tension rippling across the buckskin's skin, and so, with a soft nod of agreement, she acquiesces to Lethy's request. Peering around the mare's chest to where Owin was last standing, she grins and snorts, and then turns for the opposite bank at a brisk walk.
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
