Whimsical whistling and no short amount of hullaballoo filled the surrounding atmosphere of the halfling, and mostly because the hobbit himself occupied it. From his tweeting, bird-like whistles which progessed into gentle hums, to songs he barely knew the lyrics of later on in the evening, Pippigrin continued his hunt for the best ammunition for his new weapon. The difference between acorns, seashells and the common pebble, among many other ‘flingable’ objects were all important choices the hobbit intended to weigh up in battle.
Scooting his nose along the damp earth of the forest, the psithurism and radiant air of his surroundings rattling even the smallest of hairs upon his back, causing his feathers to sound as if they were breathing. It was evenings like this that a hobbit admired most— the kind where the sun could be seen descending inch by inch, igniting the entire landscape with it’s own temporary, heatless flames. Back Over-the-hill on a night such as this, Pippin might usually observe his father lounging out upon the hill with some leafweed, a pipe and cards, accompanied by none other than his grandfather, great-grandfather, great-great-grandfather, and a grumbly squadron of under and over-hill friends.
Did they miss him too?

The creature found himself gazing endlessly at the sun-kissed horizon, a tear threatening in the very corner of his right eye. Of course they missed him, and one day he’d be home with stories to tell for years upon years. Though, not until he had one for each hair upon his goose-coloured hide.
Sucking the drips back into his nose with a great SLURP, Pippin blinked away his tears and brushed any excess dampness onto his right foreleg, not minding one big that there was now a glorious wet sheen of snot upon his new leg guard. Turning upon his front pair of hooves, his back towards the sun and every memory of home, the flustered halfling continued about his important business; collecting ammunition.

When a rather shiny pebble caught his eye a gasp escaped his maw, his peddling steps turning over the ground at perhaps the fastest speed he had reached all day. Pale eyes crooning over the glinting specimen, Pip soon realised it was not a rock, but the glistening, lumpy back of a toad. “oh!” He bleated, wrenching his nose away from the creature at once; those kinds of things carried all sorts of monstrous poisons! Poisons which, if he was smart enough, he could apply to the ammo he was actually searching for before firing them. This was a fact that did not cross the hobbit’s mind, especially not now that a predator thundered toward him.

Ears flopping back, wings tucking tightly against his ribcage, Pippigrin slunk backwards against the approaching brontide of footfalls. Primarily the colt had no clue as to which direction the assault came from, only that this was most certainly NOT a drill any longer. This was not a practise match, it was not a dally with the sultan or a friend - He was being attacked! Fear gripped the little one’s heart, his lips quivering and eyes darting over his surroundings as he backed his rump into the earth below, gaze finally catching sight of the assailant. She was taller than he of course, though not the monstrous kind like the Sultan! Perhaps he had a chance! As always, doubt of his own ability came like a blow to the hobbit’s head almost instantaneously. The white witch would be faster than he, of this he was sure, and he could only pray he could outlast her strikes; strikes which had already begun to swipe before his eyes.

The first he managed to dodge, her two pinning daggers plunging into the earth before his face, though as he scampered backwards the woman continued to swing almost without any calculation. This was madness. She was madness! With each swipe the hobbit's whimpers grew, managing to keep himself away from all except for the last, a cry erupting from his lungs as her sword-like hooves penetrated the skin upon his chest. He had to escape, at least from under those dagger-like hooves she held over him!
Launching himself upward onto his hocks, Pippigrin attempted to shoot to her right, not caring one bit if he brushed over her leg.  After circling the woman and trying to position himself at least ten feet from her rear, Pippigrin decided it was time to put all his practise to use. Plucking his slingshot from his horns and shoving it into it’s holder upon his brace, The hobbit fumbled for a stone with urgency, clenching through the pain, hoping desperately that the beast would not lunge again. Shakily he took his aim, and...
FIRE.

THWACK!
The sound was putrid. Sickening. It was a sound he had heard before, enough to know what it was, though, it was one he had never had the guts nor gall to create. Shoulders folding under the weight of his agape jaw, Pippigrin trembled in the matutine moments of realisation for what he had done. True horror overcame the child of rocks and pebbles, a fear not for the monster he battled but of himself.
“I-“ He stammered into the silence as the white witch keeled, only silencing himself when she began to wail. The hobbit wished to apologise, to ask her if there was anything he could do to help to mend the horrible thing he had done! That scream was enough of an assault, and the halfling’s primary feathers reached forwards to cover his ears from the piercing shriek of the banshee.

It was not long at all until the squeals turned to cackles and grey goose of a boy was scampering back against a pine’s trunk, feeling a strange sense of security the closer he was to the monolithic forest guardians. The sorceress approached, her hooves appearing to eat at the ground in a way his own set never did, though still, he doubted his size as an advantage. Simply tucking his wings flat against his barrel, the half-sized stag ducked behind the tree trunk, emerging from the other side to hear the woman’s urgent pledge. ‘Wear me as a cloak!?’ This was the stuff of fairytales and nightmares - this chaotic mare gave Rumpelstiltskin a run for his money.

With his wings still pinned flat to his sides, the hobbit made his attempt to slink past the rabid huntress, only to find himself caught once again in the headlights. Like a deer the tiny stag buckled, stunned and fearful as he was launched at with a cutlass, hooves and all. The mistress’s horn, sharp as it was brilliant, was unavoidable to the unskilled warrior. Too shocked to cry out, too scared to open his eyes, Pippigrin was met with a fierce, cold pain in the skin above his wither that only begged him to move from under the beast that would surely be his death if he stayed petrified in her midst. The blood dripped, he could feel its heat slipping from the laceration and the electric sting that rose up his neck. While it had not truly hindered him, it was wound that would not leave him defeated despite it’s prolific pain - it was a scar he would wear proudly.

The blessing of his magic called to him, though still it was so new. Would it even work? Maybe it had been a one-off …or a nice dream? Still, he would try. He still knew how.
Pressing himself forwards, allowing his wingbeats to begin the surge, Pippigrin pushed himself across to the opposite side of the glade in one gentle push of his power, all in less that a second.

But it was mostly in vain, for soon, she was upon him again.
Again with the un-calculated slashing steps she roared forth, the hobbit easily ducking away from them with little precision. Beastial and furious she had dived for his slingshot, but he wouldn’t let his precious weapon go without a word.
“HAY!” He hooted as yet another swipe was aimed for his fetlocks, the half-sized stag merely stepping backwards and away from them. With each miss of his rival his confidence (and anguish) rapidly built.

Setting his hoof down upon the forest floor with a great huff, the halfling found the spirit of the warrior within him. He was braver than this, he knew he was, and this bitch silly person deserved that rock to the head!
And besides;
“THAT’S. MY. SLINGSHOT!” Pip roared, a snort thundering through his nostrils as he launched past her manically swiping hooves, aiming his horns right at her chest. Hoping he might have knocked the wind right out of her, the hardy pony landed with a twist upon the earth, eagerly turning back to the evil crone. “MINE!” he would remind her as he once again plotted to ram her, this time sending his horns toward her rib cage in one almighty dive.