white as a cotton field and sharp as a knife
It didn’t take long for Faolain’s eyes to catch the uneven movements of the chestnut stallion after his call alerted her. She turned to face him, one ear pointed toward the taller horse, the other swiveling to continue her surveillance of their surroundings. His approach was not aggressive, and Faolain had made note of his pained gait, so when he came close enough to reach she offered her nose with a gentle puff of air in greeting. She was not afraid of him, and she assumed he was not afraid of her. Most weren’t, at least at first glance. Faolain, who looked more like a large deer than anything, did not exactly strike fear into the hearts of those who laid eyes upon her.
“I am new, yes,” she said. “How could you tell?” She looked at him curiously, wondering if her presence here stuck out as obviously a newcomer, or if maybe this particular stallion just knew the land and its inhabitants well enough that he could distinguish a stranger from the familiar faces. She thought perhaps it was a bit of both. Maybe it was the fact that she smelled like seawater and her fine black mane was still dripping.
Studying the stallion, she glanced down at his lame hind leg. Faolain was straightforward, often to the point of being blunt, and though she was well-versed in manners she often disregarded them out of curiosity or dominance, or when she thought the manners were being used to sugarcoat something. This time it was the first reason that caused her to ask without hesitation, “what happened to your leg?” She mainly wanted to know if it had been a predator or a rival horse. Any information on the presence of predators or the social hierarchy of this place was valuable to her. Faolain was small, and not very strong, but she was clever and fast and determined and her weapons (simply defensive or otherwise) came in the form of information. Even simple details like a leg wound.
