Sand pools around my hooves as the egg, protected by my suggested wall, comes rolling to safety. The little filly, name still unknown to me, nudges it gently, bringing it closer still, and I can't help but smile - for the child to have such motherly instincts so young bodes well for her future. She seems to concentrate on something, and I watch as a ball of electricity forms in the air. Unease washes over me as she tightens the globe, drawing it ever closer to the fragile egg. "Careful," I warn her. "You don't want to cook it." She is kneeling as I speak, holding the egg in the warmth of her wings. "We have to keep it warm somehow," she informs us with the innocence of youth, and I smile kindly at her.

"That we do, youngling," I agree. I barely notice the stallion take his leave. Instead, my focus is on the little fae and her prize. I consider, then move to her side, folding my legs gracefully beneath me. I tell her what I'm doing as I do it: "If you hold it with your wings, and I shelter you with mine, perhaps we will give off twice the warmth." I spread my right wing, stretching it to cover her small bodice and, with it, the egg, tucking it tightly against her. I can feel her warmth against my side, and I am sure that this will at least warm the egg somewhat, if not as much as it ought to.

The stallion returns, carrying in his mouth what looks to be a makeshift basket-nest, created by weaving leaves and sticks together. I nod my approval almost without realizing that I make the motion. He sets it down, offering it to us, and I am struck with an idea. "Perhaps instead of a handle, you could weave a strap to fit around the neck and a wing? That way, one could carry it under one's wing, to give it warmth." The picture in my mind is simple: a basket held in place by a vine, tied around my nape and crossing under a wing. I would hold the basket in the fold of my wing, cradling it close to my body and protecting it from the harsh wind. It would do well to keep the egg warm, indeed.

And then there was the problem of getting the egg into the basket to begin with. After a moment of consideration, I remember the stallion's sand shifting - he would likely just lift it gently in. And the sand would help keep it warm, provided it was nested close to a heat source (such as one's body). I twist my neck, pulling a few downy feathers from my wing near the shoulder, and add my own offering to the basket-nest. It stings a bit, but I feel as though I deserve to add something of mine to the pot. After all, I am every bit as emotionally involved as the others, even though I couldn't magic up lightning or create walls of sand.

[W/C | 515]