Bonebone came to look at the fairy, he had learned about her before his mother went to bed and when she went to sleep he trotted out of Pangea. He does not sleep. His black eyes almost never close. When he moves it is with animation, too much really, springy and slinky, and eerily perfect.
The morning is aging, the autumn mist burning off. He could have been here earlier but in the dark, he had found the most lovely distractions along his meandering route. Bonebone brakes himself in the dewy grass, leaning back on his hocks and extending his long neck in a painful-looking stretch.
It might be more poetic if he didn’t see the fairy, but he does. He stands in the midst of her playground domain and stares at her, still and unblinking, for an uncomfortable amount of time. So long that she finally gets weary of it (and this is a feat, as the fairy guardian of a playground where the most precocious future terrorists of Beqanna have played for generations, her patience is divine) and disappears. Bonebone flags his black tail and springs to the place where she had stood, there is nothing special remaining, not even hoofprints. She is really gone though, defeated perhaps. “I suppose I am the fairy now. My mother will be so proud.”
@Jeje