Macaria has lived with the occasional spur of guilt for stepping on a small, struggling baby seedling, or breaking the branch from an ancient willow while passing through – these things are normal to her. This, however, the grumbling and moving of a nearby conifer is certainly not a typical circumstance for her...

It's absolutely thrilling!

For a big thing, she's quite graceful in her descend down the small hill of hemlocks and toward the enchanted spruce; the egg twinkling like a star in it's blue grasp. She see's the boy and his gorgeously braided tail and pale fur, those elegant wings of his. And another lanky young one, much like she was a year or so ago, he bares the opposite shades while they all examine together. Macaria slithers her big steel-gray body through the green, letting the closeness of the brambles rake over her dappled fur as she takes her place on the other side of pale pegasus, their golden horns contrasting each other. His shine different, his long pair of golden bones atop his head seem less frosted than hers – as if they're not type of bone, but perhaps metallic. She doesn't linger on it much longer and instead lets her honey eyes drift from face to face, finding each one's details and defining features. She notes them all and studies them rather carefully.

Her gaze finds the littlest of them all, a brave little black pegasus with a snowy blaze down her face. As typical in children of her smallness, she seems bewildered and excited – a feeling Macaria remembers well from her early months. Now, at two, she's so clearly grown up – so very mature and complete [maniacal laughter from space].

Her eyes then move from the tempted child to the older face of a stallion – an equine she's seen in passing before, in the Falls. Her lips curl in an instinctual, familial grin, her nostrils fluttering with a shuddering inhale of cold autumnal air. A silent hello resonates within her but she doesn't saying anything aloud, instead she notices one more presence, he's also eyeballing the group with a pale stare of his own. That blueness is something she notices right away, a chilly stare. Somewhere deep down she shivers at the sight of those eyes of his. She doesn't both to follow the intricate lines of his big body and the lovely grayscale tones of his grullo coat, or his bone-white horns – she looks away in a hurry, ignoring his question and keeping her eyes forward, on the spectacle at hand.


That egg might have my travelling friend.
Oh, please please!