It moves!

From where you stand several paces away, you devour the sudden eruption of stripes and dark fur. If you could replay it ten or a hundred times, you would, just to relive the sudden burst of fear-adrenaline quickening your veins. You've never experienced anything quite like it, and your tail wiggles excitedly. That fails to siphon even a fifth of the energy burning inside you, and absently your lips work at the clump of hair between them, baby teeth grating over the coarse strands and tongue curling as it appraises the peculiar horse taste of the thing. Still spellbound, though, by the volcano of mare darkening the sky directly ahead, your brain forgets to register the nervous motions of your mouth. You keep chewing. You stare. You would be utterly normal if your mother were a goat.

Now the volcanic stranger ceases erupting and glowers at you. You're so busy staring at the stripes and everything else you don't notice how she grimaces when her eyes slide over your wings. Bit by bit, her hair disappears into your mouth and your tail flicks and your wings shuffle, and it's only with a jerk you realize words flow out of her mouth. Words meant for you probably — maybe — definitely. You missed the first bit of them, though.

Slowly, your head tilts to one side. Nice? you think. You've never worried about being nice. The thoughts move so busily inside your skull they turn the small, delicately shaped ears above. Why should you be nice? To her? You don't know her. You were bored. Now a weird feeling digs at your stomach — a warning — and suddenly you taste the clump of hair in your mouth (gross). It slithers back out and falls to the ground with the softest of noises. You stare at it, as if surprised by its presence, uncertain of just how it appeared there. Then the mare is moving and your head is moving, too, with a swift upward jerk and the widening of already wide eyes.

She advances. The prey animal in the back of your mind wakes up. You retreat. Your tail still moves, your wings still move, but now more stiffly than before. You don't know what's going on, but you hear the warning bells clang, clang, clang somewhere in all that empty space you call a head. Small. Alone. You are alone, but not really. All you have to do is cry and Mama's here, making everything better. Of course, you don't need to cry yet. Nothing bad has happened (why do you feel like it might?).

Your ears twist back to the stripes mare just in time to hear her ask if you have a name.

You know the answer to this, at least. With a bob, your tiny, dished head acknowledges the words. Yes, of course you do! It's a very good name, too. Mama gave it specially to you on the day of your birth. Actually, you're not sure why the stranger even bothered to ask — doesn't everyone have a name? Doesn't she? Curiosity rules over cowardice for an instant and you cock your head at her again, ears pricked, waiting. One thing you know about interaction is it usually happens in segments: one, two, one, two. You've answered the question, so it's time for her to do something else. Except...

"Well? Do you?"

This isn't how things go? This isn't right? It's wrong? Your wings twitch as uneasily you stare at her, her face reflected in the black, black globes of your eyes. And your brain, your thoughts, stutter back and forth in fits. What now? What now? Mama never pushed you like this. Even Rikyn and Duir never pushed you like this...

You freeze.

VIRGA