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Quinn had mixed feelings about the chestnut mare.
She didn’t speak much, which was good, but she was also
someone else, a stranger, which was not so good. And she seemed to have mixed feelings about him as well, and Quinn could never figure out if the mood she was in leaned toward good or bad. Perhaps it was never good or bad. Perhaps it was both, perhaps neither. Quinn was curious, but never enough to ask. He mostly just studied her and continued to have mixed feelings.
Though he didn’t much like speaking or being spoken to, touching was okay. Macabre was a more familiar stranger than most, and not his enemy at least. He knew he wouldn’t be very safe without her. He was about as tall as she was now, only lankier, and it was comfortable to press a hip or shoulder against her when they indulged in their usual activity of not conversing. It grew cold at night as well and he was grateful for the body heat.
Still, Quinn was always restless. He sensed they were not exactly welcome here, and without Dexter around, he was nervous about being found. He wanted to leave, but wanted to stay and wait for Dexter, as well.
When suddenly he was woken from a late-evening nap (hard earned what with his nerves mostly shot) by a cacophony of noise and Macabre’s muzzle giving him a shove, he knew it must be Dexter.
They fled toward the sound, Quinn keeping to the chestnut mare’s flank until they saw Dexter being confronted by a buckskin mare with her ears flat. Quinn’s own ears fell flat; he didn’t really think of Dexter as his father, nor did he even care that much about him, but the gunmetal stallion was torn apart and half dead and still this mare was bullying him. Before he could start forward, Macabre warned him to stay back, frustrating him further, and he pranced in place while he watched the adults. He wanted to be part of this, and he was angry with Macabre for showing her teeth, but nobody had moved and maybe he wasn’t needed. If they fight, he thought, I’ll step in and beat that mare silly.
But they didn’t fight, not even when a pale stallion and his golden-splashed daughter arrived to the scene. Quinn’s excitement only rose further, and he let out a shrill whinny to announce his frustrations. Dexter was watching him, probably willing the colt to stay out of this, but Quinn was sick of sitting and waiting and, as a bonus, he could show off to that painted filly who was probably older than he was. He pranced and paced as the grown-ups exchanged their words, wanting very badly for them to give up negotiations and fight, because fighting was, in Quinn’s opinion, the best way to solve problems.