Thunk. Thump, thunk, clunk. Crack. Creak. A discordant harmony taps against her ears, all brittle rattles and tat-tat-tats that makes the young spider shiver, quiver, curl her lips in a display of distaste. It's a deliciously cute and unconscious mirroring of her mother's so delicately crafted expressions of contempt and derision directed towards her foes. How strange, the way the young pick up on the ways of their elders; how the cycle ever continues, the snake swallowing it's tail, the wolf chasing the deer through the never-ending forest.

What could it be? She listens, all dark symmetry poised between shadowed trees, light-footed with her caution and with the fear that murmurs in the back of her head; flee, it croons to her. Run so whatever goes crashing through the forest cannot catch you. And yet she stands, primed and trimmed into a silhouette of youthful complacency, swathed in shadow and garbed in a light coat of silvered frost; all corpulent flesh, tantalizing to whatever beastie may desire a taste of equine blood.

Although the likelihood of something holding mischievous intent towards the humble daughter of a war queen seemed unlikely at best, to her blind and naive ways.

Tulip ears flicker in uncertainty, delicate nostrils cusping wide as she drinks in the spring air. There's no reek of monster, of the wolf and coyote her mother had taught her to avoid (at least until she was older); there was only sap and pine and larch, all melted together into one waxy smear of bitter scents. And maybe, just maybe, beneath that there was the musk of horse skin and sweat. Back and forth she rocks on delicate toes, a bird poised for flight, teeth sucking together and lips frothing ever-so-slightly as she champs.

Finally, shoulders slump and the sharp arc of her neck softens, and the little filly prances forwards, nimble as a bunny hopping through the grass, almost wagging her tufty tail in childish excitement.

Forth! She wends through the trees, daft pillars obscure among the many, a sly little creature with scarlet eyes and a promising smile. Occasionally, she slows to a halting walk, peering around a trunk with an air of definite sleuthiness, trying out the garb of a spy; but then she returns to her foolish gambolling, strutting through the trees with a decided swagger to her step. Not only does this childish playing allow for her muscles to warm, softening beneath silver skin, but it sharpens a witty mind left dulled by boredom.

So when she chances across the unicorn mare, she is clever enough (sly little vixen!) to not immediately leap out from behind the trees. Even if the pretty, pretty unicorn didn't hate foals and fillies, Nymeria knew in what seemed to be imminent rage she was perhaps better off giving her warning.

This is, of course, prior to the absolute bellows of fury.

At those horrendous shrieks, grating on her eardrums with all the kindliness of a rocky avalanche, the waif's ears drift back, snapping firmly to her skull. Ruby eyes squint, eyelashes sweeping down close over scarlet and crimson; her breath snags, catches, and her legs tremble. As pleased as she is to find out the ruckus is caused only by a perky-looking mare, she is no fool: a mare so damnably angry could pose a massive threat to a clumsy child as she.

So she watches, with only part of her dark face exposed from behind a particularly massive tree she had chosen to sneakily hide behind.

Nymeria & Lilómiel

In the darkness I will meet my creators
And they will all agree, that I’m a suffocator