... She probably looked dead.

Yeah. Yeah. Definitely. Definitely dead.

Rhiannon was nothing more than a sprawled out mound of frosted black and brindle flesh laying flat on her side, mane and tail a mess of tangled hairs about her curvy frame, hooves barely dipping beneath the shoreline of the crisp lake waters. Two-toned eyes were shut, uncaring if anyone happened upon her body and proclaimed her dead. She'd bite the legs of anyone who tried.

Jerks.

Heaving a breath, the brindled devil relished in the silence of her mind. For now, the demons were sleeping. Silent. So fucking silent. Maybe they were lulled into a long-overdue nap-time by the warm spring weather? Gods knew it was working for her...

The remainder of Frostfall had been brutal. While she had reveled in the meager snowfall, a little pissed that there wasn't more snow, everything else had weighed heavily upon her. With the prolonged darkness of the night and such short hours during the day, the demons in her mind had wrought havoc upon her sanity, pushing and pushing and pushing until she sought out a way to take out her aggression and turmoil. That... Had ended poorly for some unfortunate sods, but, just like her currently sprawled out and crumpled body, she didn't care.

Then Birdsong had come, all bird-chirps and sappy bullshit about 'new life' and all that, and the premature warmth had chased away the poor excuse of a winter, taking her snow with it.

The brindled beast gave a snort. "...Jerks."

Still, with the change of the seasons, Rhiannon had been surprised when her mind had grown more and more silent, as though soothed and sated by the temperate atmosphere. She wasn't bitching, hell no. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, or whatever. Why a horse would want to gift itself, she didn't know... Unless a dainty little thing was gifting itself to her. Oh, man. Now there was an idea she could get behind.

From where she lay, Rhiannon chuckled, eyes still shut against the rays of the afternoon sun. Oh yeah. That sounded like a really good idea.

So, the darkly mare continued to lay sprawled out like a dead thing, halfway dozing beneath the warm sun, and lost herself in the daydream that was being on the receiving end of a delectable, female present.

ooc: Open for anyone!

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

One moment she's laying there, still like some wretched dead beast, fantasizing about future conquests and the curves of beautiful women, and the next she's snatched out of her dazed reverie and future wet dreams. Something, quite literally, snatches at the crest of her neck, pulling back only a second later to wrench a small section of frosted hairs back and -

- RIP! -

Oh.

... Oh.

Now, lets back up a bit. Rhiannon had never been a vain creature, especially when she didn't give a rats ass how her hair was in a constant state of tangles and knots. She cared not for the dust that seemed to perpetually coat her brindled hide, but... She also knew that she looked good. A vixen, a siren, a sly, dangerous thing of coiled muscle and feminine charm. Or, 'charm'. Whatever.

So, when her 'attacker' managed to pull out a small chunk of knotted mane, Rhiannon wasn't too angry. The action did, however, cause her considerable bulk to hoist itself upright, two-toned eyes snapping open and flashing dangerously as she whirled towards her attacker. Teeth barred, head tucking down towards her muscled breast to point spiraled horns at her opponent, legs tense and ready to attack, frozen-silver and molten-gold eyes locking on whoever had the balls to disturb her from her daydreaming...

Only for confusion, genuine, gob-smacked confusion to settle in.

... What the fuck is that?

A colt, obviously. Dark as the night, perhaps darker, with a horn upon his brow... And, subsequently, his bratty mouth wrapped around a lock of her mane. That train of thought, however, only derailed when Rhiannon spotted wings sprouting from the colt's back, and her teeth gnashed in great displeasure.

Now, she was no fool. Rhiannon knew that things were changing. Times were changing. No longer was the Basin home to only her proud brethren, her horned kin, but these winged miscreants and the hornless heathens had joined their ranks and poisoned their system. It made her sick, made her wish she could vomit... But, alas. She couldn't, and since she wasn't a Queen in their mountainous home, she had no say.

Still.

Violence was frowned upon, and Rhiannon didn't think that she could get away with plucking this colt's wings from his back without anyone else taking notice.

"... You've got a lot of nerve, disturbing a lady while she's sleeping," Rhiannon stated on a bristled breath, "And biting me, even. That isn't very nice." A slow, sly, sickeningly sweet smile spread across the brindled devil's lips, eyes flashing. "What a small thing you are, and all alone... Do you have a name?"

Rhiannon had no idea if she should try and discipline the half-blood. She took one step forward, then another, her motion stalking, creeping, seething. How could she discipline it? Bite it back? Rip out a tuft of his own mane and see how he liked it? Or... Or maybe ripping out some of his feathers would suffice? Oh. Oh. Maybe... Maybe if she could get close enough, just a bite...

"Well? Do you?"

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