05-09-2020, 04:22 PM
Shipka
Even during the day she wears stars on her shoulders, spilling over her haunches as if she were the night sky itself, and the small white flowers that twine through the black curls of her mane and tail shift like galaxies, now flashing bright white, now hidden by shadow. Like the night sky, she is silent and watchful, resting quietly atop a large boulder, legs tucked neatly beneath her in a bed of moss and twigs. Her grey eyes shine in a dark face like a pair of moons looking down over the scattered groups of foals that play and romp through the meadow. Something in her heart flutters, curious, but shy. She has been too much in the company of adults, too much in her own company, and finds the prospect of joining the other foals terrifying.
She sees the twins almost immediately, their complementary colors draw her attention, even above the other children who shine bright as butterflies in the golden sun. Perhaps it is only because they tumble out of the orchards so near to where she has come to rest, perhaps it is the easy way that they bicker and come together, perhaps it is the sight of a pinecone hurled at the boy without anybody touching it. They pause and convene closely, unaware that she is close enough to hear them, and then they dart away, her eyes following them, curious. They shove and chase like puppies and Shipka wonders if this is normal, if this is how one initiates play. She looks back to the pinecone left forgotten on the ground and tries to lift it without touching, the way the other girl did so simply, as if it was nothing. With the afternoon sun hanging over them, she manages to do little more than make the air around it shine and glitter with a vague, ephemeral light. The pinecone rises no more than an inch from the ground, lifting weakly, shuddering, then dropping noisily onto the side of the small hill they've run down so that it rolls noisily to the children below. They stop, peering back at it, back in her direction.
The filly freezes in silence for a moment and then, sheepishly, stands up from her place above the rocks.
"Hi."
She speaks, then holds her breath.
Photo by guille pozzi on UnsplashShe sees the twins almost immediately, their complementary colors draw her attention, even above the other children who shine bright as butterflies in the golden sun. Perhaps it is only because they tumble out of the orchards so near to where she has come to rest, perhaps it is the easy way that they bicker and come together, perhaps it is the sight of a pinecone hurled at the boy without anybody touching it. They pause and convene closely, unaware that she is close enough to hear them, and then they dart away, her eyes following them, curious. They shove and chase like puppies and Shipka wonders if this is normal, if this is how one initiates play. She looks back to the pinecone left forgotten on the ground and tries to lift it without touching, the way the other girl did so simply, as if it was nothing. With the afternoon sun hanging over them, she manages to do little more than make the air around it shine and glitter with a vague, ephemeral light. The pinecone rises no more than an inch from the ground, lifting weakly, shuddering, then dropping noisily onto the side of the small hill they've run down so that it rolls noisily to the children below. They stop, peering back at it, back in her direction.
The filly freezes in silence for a moment and then, sheepishly, stands up from her place above the rocks.
"Hi."
She speaks, then holds her breath.
@[Crius]