The mare answers and the Morrigan listens, her demeanour quiet as she leaned her golden shoulder against the tree. It allowed her to feel more grounded in time, to help ease that feeling of swimming through the molasses of existence. The tree was here, it was real, and therefore so was she.

As Baba Yaga speaks of always being tired, and yet unable to let go of her constant need to move, it strikes Morrigan that it sounds as if the girl has never rested a day in her life. Has never lain her head down to enjoy the quiet without worrying about whatever task or threat or intrusion might come next. Perhaps it has never even occurred to the gray mare that she deserves to take time for herself to do something she enjoys simply for the sake of it's enjoyment. Such an existence sounds exhausting, and she hums softly, sadly as she lets the mare finish.

"Rest is an art, not a task." She says simply, pausing to shift her weight, letting the sensation of the rough bark scratch at her skin. An idea occurs to her, borne from her memory of how the snowflake stallion from the Crossing had joined her in her dance. A smile curls along her pale lips and as she lifts her head to peer up at the taller mare, she then tips her head toward the opposite edge of the tree.

"Join me." To illustrate what she means, the Morrigan places more weight against the thick trunked tree - nearly a solid four feet in diameter - and leans into it, allowing the bark to scratch the good itches beneath her mane, along her withers, and over her ribs, before reversing to do the same with a small, satisfied grunt. Her tail dashed at her hocks and she kept up the charade, offering another nod of encouragement if Baba Yaga were still resistant.