08-28-2019, 11:15 AM
With her small stature, even at a year old, Popinjay is not much bigger than Celina, only a bit more filled in, her mane and tail longer, but still curling slightly, the locks bouncing as she follows along. It might be surprising that she has not found this spot on her own, but lately her focus has been on other regions of the Taigan wilderness, its vast density hiding many secrets. Like many other parcels of the land, this one boasts the thick trunks of old trees as wide as several horses standing abreast. The large trees bear burn scars like so many of the others, and their fallen brethren lie silent, burnt-out husks that were too ill to stand against the licking flames. Popinjay knows this inherently, instinctually, not because she has heard the tales of the fire, and the knowledge of its happening stays in the base of her brain, a detail to be noted but not further investigated. Here, the trees fared perhaps a bit less well than in other places, there are many downed logs, rotted nearly to earth, their jagged forms housing a bouquet of different fungal growths. The yearling lets her nose trace across one hard, scaly, outcropping that juts out, dramatic and orange, but this is not the mushroom that Celina is seeking and she continues on.
The sky opens above them suddenly and Popinjay blinks her dark eyes, startled by the change. Fire and water have opened the sky here and around them, the trees are mostly saplings, the understory growing wild without the shade of tall redwoods to tame it, and the humidity nearly turns stifling as the sun shines brightly overhead. Gnats and biting flies buzz in her ears and as Celina casts about for her trail once again, Popinjay squeals and half-rears, her head rolling to shake away the pin-point black bodies that gather in the corners of her eyes.
Even as she does so, she hears the other girl’s voice call out brightly and disappear, and she follows, ears pinned back and her nostrils full of the thick smell of warm vegetation.
“I hope your dad’s mushrooms are worth those flies,” she says with a snort as she comes around the boulders, stopping immediately when she is confronted by the tall grey cliffs that go up and up and up, “Oh.”
It’s almost as if somebody put a wall up, a fortress to keep her out. Even Popinjay’s nimble feet could not scale that. Celina beckons, and, stepping carefuly around roots and weeds, the fillies pass between the young redwoods and into a long, flat hollow of water-cut rock. The mushrooms her companion finally stops by are the least assuming of the bunch and the dark filly looks at them almost reproachfully.
This is what she came to look at?
But she has never been one to turn down a dare, and something about Celina’s manner eggs her on deliciously.
Didn’t come all this way to not eat ‘em, she thinks, the mischief of Celina’s eyes matching the grin that grows on her black lips. The star on her brow seems to grow brighter, shining like a beacon, a warning against their folly, but it is only a rare bolt of sunlight passing the mouth of the cave as the star drifts across the sky, and Popinjay already has several of the mushrooms between her teeth, so the warning comes too late, anyway. Her nose wrinkles at their taste. They taste like nothing in particular at first, but slowly grow more bitter and she pulls a dramatic face and gapes her mouth with an exaggerated cough.
“UFF! They’re awful Celina!” And then she laughs, shaking her head so that small particles of chewed mushroom fly messily about.
The sky opens above them suddenly and Popinjay blinks her dark eyes, startled by the change. Fire and water have opened the sky here and around them, the trees are mostly saplings, the understory growing wild without the shade of tall redwoods to tame it, and the humidity nearly turns stifling as the sun shines brightly overhead. Gnats and biting flies buzz in her ears and as Celina casts about for her trail once again, Popinjay squeals and half-rears, her head rolling to shake away the pin-point black bodies that gather in the corners of her eyes.
Even as she does so, she hears the other girl’s voice call out brightly and disappear, and she follows, ears pinned back and her nostrils full of the thick smell of warm vegetation.
“I hope your dad’s mushrooms are worth those flies,” she says with a snort as she comes around the boulders, stopping immediately when she is confronted by the tall grey cliffs that go up and up and up, “Oh.”
It’s almost as if somebody put a wall up, a fortress to keep her out. Even Popinjay’s nimble feet could not scale that. Celina beckons, and, stepping carefuly around roots and weeds, the fillies pass between the young redwoods and into a long, flat hollow of water-cut rock. The mushrooms her companion finally stops by are the least assuming of the bunch and the dark filly looks at them almost reproachfully.
This is what she came to look at?
But she has never been one to turn down a dare, and something about Celina’s manner eggs her on deliciously.
Didn’t come all this way to not eat ‘em, she thinks, the mischief of Celina’s eyes matching the grin that grows on her black lips. The star on her brow seems to grow brighter, shining like a beacon, a warning against their folly, but it is only a rare bolt of sunlight passing the mouth of the cave as the star drifts across the sky, and Popinjay already has several of the mushrooms between her teeth, so the warning comes too late, anyway. Her nose wrinkles at their taste. They taste like nothing in particular at first, but slowly grow more bitter and she pulls a dramatic face and gapes her mouth with an exaggerated cough.
“UFF! They’re awful Celina!” And then she laughs, shaking her head so that small particles of chewed mushroom fly messily about.
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
