She has grown, but not very tall, and she is still a wild thing, weaving between the trees almost without thinking, like she could do it blind. Each gray hoof finds it’s purchase in loam and leaf, in the world hidden from view by fog and fern, invisible. But she is not blind, her eyes are bright and clear and dark like the blackwater creek that weaves through the ravine to the north. But she is not headed that direction, today. Today she is alone and plunging deep into the Taigan forest, deeper than she has been before. Occasionally, as she passes, the yearling bites at a fern or a low-hanging branch that catches her eye. Not for any particular reason.
The light that comes through the trees is warm and golden and drips off her mist-soaked coat. Thick eyelashes are heavy with droplets of gleaming water and she blinks them away. This part of the forest looks no different than any other part of it, tall trees rising up from the earth, hiding the sky, and it would be so easy to get lost. Just trees, and trees, and trees, and ferns, and fog, and more trees. Young Popinjay rarely loses her sense of directions, but sometimes even she gets turned around, especially in unfamiliar parts of the territory. For a moment, she pauses to take her bearings.
The snort surprises her, and she answers it with one of her own and a leap to the side, landing in an almost crouch with her haunches tucked under and her front legs nearly resting on pointe, and head up, up, up. Small ears press forward to the sound of someone coming – she hadn’t expected anyone – and her dark eyes zero in on a shadow moving among the shadows. The filly snorts again, head rolling, and returns to an otherwise motionless observation, only her head turning to track the dark horseshape that is tracking through the trees. His smell comes to her, then, it doesn’t smell of Taiga, and it doesn’t smell of horse, either. Ears fall flat, then flit forward again, alert. Briefly a debate rages, the young stallion looks as if he will blow right past her without even seeing her, like he could stumble into her and never notice.
She doesn’t like to be ignored, not even by threatening strangers.
The light that comes through the trees is warm and golden and drips off her mist-soaked coat. Thick eyelashes are heavy with droplets of gleaming water and she blinks them away. This part of the forest looks no different than any other part of it, tall trees rising up from the earth, hiding the sky, and it would be so easy to get lost. Just trees, and trees, and trees, and ferns, and fog, and more trees. Young Popinjay rarely loses her sense of directions, but sometimes even she gets turned around, especially in unfamiliar parts of the territory. For a moment, she pauses to take her bearings.
The snort surprises her, and she answers it with one of her own and a leap to the side, landing in an almost crouch with her haunches tucked under and her front legs nearly resting on pointe, and head up, up, up. Small ears press forward to the sound of someone coming – she hadn’t expected anyone – and her dark eyes zero in on a shadow moving among the shadows. The filly snorts again, head rolling, and returns to an otherwise motionless observation, only her head turning to track the dark horseshape that is tracking through the trees. His smell comes to her, then, it doesn’t smell of Taiga, and it doesn’t smell of horse, either. Ears fall flat, then flit forward again, alert. Briefly a debate rages, the young stallion looks as if he will blow right past her without even seeing her, like he could stumble into her and never notice.
She doesn’t like to be ignored, not even by threatening strangers.
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
