She was not quite what you would call refined.
The woods are quiet, but they are not silent. The fog drifting through in the early morning is low and thick and it deadens the sound of careful footsteps, but does not mute them entirely. Popinjay is creeping through old haunts finding solace in familiarity when so many new experience buzz in her brain like bees, each clamoring for the same flower of her attention. The world is larger than she knew, than she expected, and the prospect of delving deeper into the strange places she has darkened with her great winged shadow draws a wild grin across her face. But first, the Taiga.
She has neglected the woods in favor of the world laid out before her, but she returns, nimble and surefooted, dancing now over fern and fen, and when she finds her way to the skeleton of fallen redwood, she leaps atop it with practiced ease, knowing where each stair-like groove sits without looking. Once, as a child, she teased the wind from this precarious bridge, trusting the feet that never failed her. Now she trust the feathered wings furled tight beneath her dark skin. The wind ruffles her coat and turns her grin to frenzy. With the fog so thick, it is nearly impossible to see where the other end of the tree is lodged at the far side of the ravine, but even the clouds cannot hide the darkness of its center or the dry smell of tannins in the slow creek below.
Lost in that memory, Poppy almost does not hear the small feet pressing leaf and needle over the roar of the black canyon beneath her, but her dark eyes are sharp and the fleck of gold gives the boy away long before he breaks the tree line. Her merry hooves stop drumming the great trunk and she is still but for the wild whipping of her mane and tail.
"You shouldn't be here," She knows that it's true because he is no older than she was the first time she came, and she certainly was not supposed to be here then, either. "You should go back to your mother."
Despite the scolding words, her voice drips with an unspoken dare.
She has neglected the woods in favor of the world laid out before her, but she returns, nimble and surefooted, dancing now over fern and fen, and when she finds her way to the skeleton of fallen redwood, she leaps atop it with practiced ease, knowing where each stair-like groove sits without looking. Once, as a child, she teased the wind from this precarious bridge, trusting the feet that never failed her. Now she trust the feathered wings furled tight beneath her dark skin. The wind ruffles her coat and turns her grin to frenzy. With the fog so thick, it is nearly impossible to see where the other end of the tree is lodged at the far side of the ravine, but even the clouds cannot hide the darkness of its center or the dry smell of tannins in the slow creek below.
Lost in that memory, Poppy almost does not hear the small feet pressing leaf and needle over the roar of the black canyon beneath her, but her dark eyes are sharp and the fleck of gold gives the boy away long before he breaks the tree line. Her merry hooves stop drumming the great trunk and she is still but for the wild whipping of her mane and tail.
"You shouldn't be here," She knows that it's true because he is no older than she was the first time she came, and she certainly was not supposed to be here then, either. "You should go back to your mother."
Despite the scolding words, her voice drips with an unspoken dare.
Nashua whenever you get to it
