He doesn’t get to his feet at first, he merely cranes his plum-colored neck around to allow himself a moment to fully take in his surroundings. It’s chilly and its dark and he doesn’t fucking like it. Nope, not even a little.
It’s too open here and the ground? What the fuck is ground made of? He especially disliked the ground. Small, amethyst ears flick back indignantly at the granules that clung to his wetness. Oh, hell no.
The colt squalls as he stumbles up upon shifting sand with new, spindly legs. He moves to his mother’s side instinctually, grumbling and hungry. Basically he was born an ornery little shit.