If you knew what she was thinking, you'd probably just run off.

You're not exactly female, and you're not exactly delectable by any sane definition of the term. I mean, you've seen all of 1.5 seasons by now and the harder you try to grow into your baby-frame, the lankier and more ridiculous you look. Tufts of black fuzz stick out at odd angles here and there as your body shoves out its first batch of baby fur in favor of a sleeker, more summer-appropriate style. You haven't spent a single day of this life so far worrying about how you look, though, so instead of preening you just pause every now and then to scratch the itchiest spots on a convenient rock or tree. Sometimes in the middle of that, you remember your twin and wonder what the hell she's up to running about Helovia on her own. Aren't you family? Aren't you supposed to be in this together? If she's forgotten that, you ought to remind her. That's what you're up to today — what you were up to.

Now you've found a dead thing.

Well, you don't even know dead's a thing yet, so you've found a.... A thing. A mare. Tipped over on her side, placidly... washing her feet? And sleeping. Probably sleeping. The sight is so absolutely weird you forget Vesper in an instant — you're good at doing that. Tail up, you spend at least thirty seconds staring at the tipped-over mare, wondering if she might get up. Seems not. But why not?

You must find out. It might help further your understanding of adults who aren't Mama, of which you know almost nothing, except they're mostly uninteresting. This one, though — she's weird! On tiptoe, you creep toward her. All the while, your body stretches out, long and longer, swan's neck reaching to its furthest extent. Your nostrils flutter with tentative breathes, but she smells just like any old horse, and the water smells cold, and what is she doing? Your brain reaches a single conclusion long before you're aware of the conclusion.

It goes like this: close. Closer. Closer.

Bite her.

Yep. That's the ultimate course of action you've decided upon. Your lips reach out first, tentative and fumbling, and quick — quick — quickly — your tiny teeth peek at the world and snap with vigor for a strand of dark mane. The amount of courage necessary even to pull this off scares you and wildly you recoil, forgetting to open your mouth and let go of anything you maybe managed to grab. No, your brain now screams backwards! and so backwards you go, scrambling and scrambling and eventually turning yourself around so you can go faster, those too-long spindles you call legs tangling and untangling with lucky precision.

Eventually you stop. You look back. You wonder if your action had any effect. Giddy with the possibilities, you don't even begin to think you might be in trouble. You are young and curious and quite without any maternal approach to discipline. There's no such thing as not allowed, is there?

VIRGA