you shouldn’t walk where the hemlock grows

”Perhaps they fled not from the heat, but from my brother and those fillies he runs wild with.”

Faolain chuckles at the image this gives her. Iscariot and his young companions scattering through the jungle, driving brilliantly colored flocks of birds out of the brush and into the sky. There is no doubt that a foal fits better in this narrative than a grown stallion, but in her mind Iscariot is not out of place at all. Faolain knows a little of his and Rivaini’s past; enough to know that the pale stallion has some catching up to do with simple childhood joys.

Before coming to the Lost Islands, Faolain had been unskilled at reading the emotions of others. She had also been apathetic of such things, unless they were vocalized to her directly. She had never realized what a huge part of communication she had been missing out on until now. Since reaching the Islands, and especially since coming to the Ridge, Faolain has developed more of an eye for unspoken things. She is perhaps not as observant as Iscariot when it comes to spotting those quiet hints, but she has come far from the near-blindness with which she began. Now, as Rivaini rambles almost absently about the birds, Faolain notices… something.

It might be Çiçek’s comment that the silver bay had had a more difficult time with the news of the Nez Perc’s departure, or it might simply be that Rivaini is Faolain’s closest friend and it would be difficult not to pick up on her signals. Either way, Faolain both feels the unrest and consciously notices it. Her attention shifts from the water at her hooves to the guarded expression on her companion’s face, and she considers whether or not to bring it up.

”Yes, for all of their music and beauty, the smell of rotting shellfish surely dampened their appeal,” she says with a laugh. ”Watching Iscariot and the children chase them around, though… That was pretty worth it.” She looks up toward the empty sky, as though expecting the birds - or maybe Çiçek, whose sudden acquisition of wings would not have surprised Faolain in the least - to return with their brilliant colors and symphony. ”They’re not gone forever,” she says, rather absently, meaning both the birds and Çiçek. Whether Rivaini picks up on this, Faolain can’t say, but she looks back to her silver companion with a cheeky expression. ”We could chase our little bird over to Tinuvel, if you’d like.”

mare | black | 14hh | akhal-teke