07-21-2019, 04:25 PM
Beqanna.
Magic.
Mountains and Fairies.
Except for the mountain, it's her first time hearing any of these words, and so she has difficulty bringing any of them into context. Popinjay screws up her face, pursing lips and wrinkling nostrils, her small ears turning backward and forward as if stirring the names in her mind. She cannot picture what a fairy is meant to look like or be, and Magic is too nebulous for even the adults to describe, though they have not tried. Is Magic a fairy as well? Is it an individual? Lethy does not speak of it like it is Anyone At All. The thought of it makes her nostrils itch and she sneezes. Loudly.
"The Magic is at The Mountain with The Fairies."
Hm. Obviously she's going to have to go there, it seems like the only way to get some answers. The young filly watches Turul preen, bringing order to feathers that did not seem terribly unruly her. Of course, she still has blueberry stems in her hair, so what does Popinjay know of order? As if to emphasize the point, she rolls down onto her side, rubbing pine needles and leaves into her thick winter coat, while keeping one eye on Turul who looks mysteriously between the adults, waiting for interpretation. It comes shortly.
The filly turns to Aten when he speaks, meeting his light eyes with her own dark-eyed gaze, and when he answers affirmatively, she rolls, flipping over fully, and leaping nimbly back up to her feet. Shreds of leaves and fallen evergreen needles stick to her back and haunches and tail, there is even a bit of spider silk caught in her eyelash, but she takes no notice. She turns to Turul when he cries out, and rears, striking the air as he circles overhead, then bounding forward in a cloud of coppery leaf-dust. Rabbit-like, she leaps after him, broncing and hunching her back and neck, moving with seeming abandon yet also never coming close enough to the bird to touch him with her hard hooves when he comes to ground. A high-pitched laugh erupts from her throat as she follows the gyrfalcon away from the adults and leaves them to their quiet conversation.
Magic.
Mountains and Fairies.
Except for the mountain, it's her first time hearing any of these words, and so she has difficulty bringing any of them into context. Popinjay screws up her face, pursing lips and wrinkling nostrils, her small ears turning backward and forward as if stirring the names in her mind. She cannot picture what a fairy is meant to look like or be, and Magic is too nebulous for even the adults to describe, though they have not tried. Is Magic a fairy as well? Is it an individual? Lethy does not speak of it like it is Anyone At All. The thought of it makes her nostrils itch and she sneezes. Loudly.
"The Magic is at The Mountain with The Fairies."
Hm. Obviously she's going to have to go there, it seems like the only way to get some answers. The young filly watches Turul preen, bringing order to feathers that did not seem terribly unruly her. Of course, she still has blueberry stems in her hair, so what does Popinjay know of order? As if to emphasize the point, she rolls down onto her side, rubbing pine needles and leaves into her thick winter coat, while keeping one eye on Turul who looks mysteriously between the adults, waiting for interpretation. It comes shortly.
The filly turns to Aten when he speaks, meeting his light eyes with her own dark-eyed gaze, and when he answers affirmatively, she rolls, flipping over fully, and leaping nimbly back up to her feet. Shreds of leaves and fallen evergreen needles stick to her back and haunches and tail, there is even a bit of spider silk caught in her eyelash, but she takes no notice. She turns to Turul when he cries out, and rears, striking the air as he circles overhead, then bounding forward in a cloud of coppery leaf-dust. Rabbit-like, she leaps after him, broncing and hunching her back and neck, moving with seeming abandon yet also never coming close enough to the bird to touch him with her hard hooves when he comes to ground. A high-pitched laugh erupts from her throat as she follows the gyrfalcon away from the adults and leaves them to their quiet conversation.
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
