The little roan's gaze tears away from the tree to look upon her companion for the first time and she smiles, the expression warming the bones of her face and brightening her intelligent eyes, but she does not immediately respond. Instead, she looks back up at the canopy, reaching impossibly far overhead, and makes a slow circle around the trunk.

"You are right," she says, finally looking back to the much taller mare. "I shall have to come back and marvel at her when the wind grows cold and pulls her decorations down. She is the prettiest tree here," she announces with finality, casting an appreciative glance upward.

As the mare spoke again, delivering her name, Morrigan paused for a moment, thoughtful. "Resident is such a funny word, don't you think? I'd rather like to think I belong here, the way the moss and the birds and the funny little skunks do." Her gaze brightened, creamy tail swishing about her hindquarters. "You can call me the Morrigan," she answered, rather proud of herself for picking up on the cue to introduce herself.

Having been raised mostly by the wilds themselves, given that her mother had passed on and her father was unknown, it was a miracle that Morrigan spoke at all. Her gaze grew sharper without losing its sweetness, and she peered up at the gray mare expectantly. "Do you belong, or do you reside, Baba Yaga?"