Another lands behind me. There is the sound of feathers and windswept mane and I can already guess the blood of such a horse. It is not her wings which make my haunches tuck as though preparing to bolt, but rather her appearance behind me. I feel for a moment like a cornered dog, caged in on either side by two strangers. Perhaps the illustration would be more fitting to say I'm a nervous boy being trapped by two mares, my innocence about to be stripped! Yet that would be melodramatic and simply, untrue. It is not fear of my groin or youth that makes me sink with cowardice, nor is it heat or desire that lead them to come from either side. Quite simply, I am afraid, and they are both friendly and ignorant, in so far as I can tell.

My irritation rises at the presence of another. This eternal thirst and lack of magic I've relied upon since birth has made me very unpredictable. I'm no more dangerous than a mare with a mood swing though, perhaps even less so with my dull blade of a tongue. I can only roll my eyes with the insufferable agony of social interaction and playing nice when I want only to shriek.

I stand calm and passive despite my inner dialogue and fast-beating heart. My knees straighten and joints bend, though muscles occasionally quiver still with the urge to flee like a bounding stag. If only I could draw one to distract them and then run the other direction when they're not looking...

"Onni." The voice behind me murmurs. I am immediately calm. Well, calmer. She has a lovely voice and I cannot help but twist my head over my shoulders to finally look at her fully. She has a frame the nicely matches her voice, and I do admire her patchy coloration. Although I've certainly seen more, unique coloring in the past few days, I cannot help but appreciate the artistic design of the body, especially once so mismatched and fully individual. Her voice though is what truly draws me. With none of my own I am more attracted to the tone of others than anything they look, do or even to an extent, have to say. It's all about the how they say it, and I suppose, the why they say it. She is kind, but do I detect nervousness? Or just, uncertainty. I'm sure I don't appear welcoming.

I feel, embarrassed for being so childish. Have I even done anything offensive? I scrunch up my face in thought, uncertain of how I may have fully appeared on the outside. I make a note to drop my shoulders and cock a toe. When I do relax I'm aware once more of my overwhelming thirst and I resist the urge to climb into the stream and wallow like a hippo while in the company of these mares. I do have some pride.

I'm brought back to the first mare when I see her body move. She doesn't really go anywhere, but her demeanor changes. Gone is the original playful happiness she wore when she first startled me. She seems, sad? I cannot place it exactly, which annoys me. I like to be able to figure everyone out. There's much to listen to but so much goes unsaid. I would know.

She glances back a time or two. She's waiting for someone? Stupidly I crane my head around and try to glance back too, but I've no idea what I'm supposed to be looking for, especially when she doesn't even seem to find it. Was someone with her? Maybe they got lost, or died? Maybe she's crazy and has imaginary friends or shadows to play with. I shrug, not wanting to assume much less judge. I'm just feeling fantastical for some reason. I blame the heat.

In a demure way she murmurs her name, like air deflating from a song bird that's gone off key. I tilt my head, ears trying to catch her words in a new and different way. I am sad for her, unexpectedly. I much preferred the sound of her voice when she was happy. She proffers a weak, shadowy smile, as though aware of the perceptible shift in her mood. I don't pretend to return it. Mine would look nearly as frail as hers and I'd rather not lie with what little form of communication I still retain. I shake my head slightly, some form of apology for ruining her mood.

She begins to speak again. I hear it before her lips part and I stiffen. I know what comes next. It always comes, without a doubt, and it always sets the rest of the meeting - it usually sets it in a bad way too. I'm all tension with my spread hooves, raised head and clenched teeth. I can hear the question unfurl from her mouth, but it's not the one I expected.

I falter. The ground suddenly seems to have vanished, or so it feels. I catch myself, and were I able, would be blushing profusely. I give myself a shake and try to feign normalcy, as if I frequently nose dive into the ground, and move instead back towards the river and begin to drink. It's water is like a cooling balm on my throat and my whole body beats with renewed life. I am thankful for her question, I was dying to keep drinking. I slurp greedily, eyes lifting to gaze up at her. Though the burn still continues I manage to tear myself away, needing to get a point across by my drinking action. I raise my head and also glance towards the one called Onni. Water drips from my muzzle and my tongue, useless for anything else, ensures I do not lose another drop.

I bob my head passionately and finally crack my solemn features with a wide, boyish grin. Why, I'm here for the drinks, and perhaps, now that it's arrived, the company. I swish my tail in some form of invitation, like a finger curling seductively - can water be seductive? It feels like it, for surely it is not my young, frail and gangly body that would do the trick - come and drink from the earth's veins when the sky remains so parched.