The little grey mare feels anxious, because the plants tell her to be so. It is not a bad anxiety, but an excited one, a confusing surge of feeling and contentment that makes her puzzle over her circumstances. Fall is here, they scream in excitement, and her emotions are mixed as much as theirs. She likes the summer, but she does not like this summer. She wonders if all summers are so terrible and hot, and if she has forgotten... but the plants seem angry at this cruel heat and the sun's wrath, so perhaps this isn't normal. She cannot remember... and she does not know why she's here.

She feels anxious.

She follows the excitement of the earth, dark hooves pressing blandly against the hard ground, dark vines crawling against her sides. The share of energy is constant, new growth feeding her and her strength feeding the striving plants. They are excited, and she wonders why, and so she follows their animation and excitement, staring at the ground and smiling at the earth as it churns around her, little blades of grass shooting out beneath her feet, her hooves leaving crescent dead patches as she unconsciously borrows their energy. She does not see anything or anyone, because she rarely sees anything, because really she thinks the plants are much more pleasant than most people, although she likes people, but some of them are too angry and don't just grow and it is confusing for her.

She stops and sighs, dark vines wrapping around her in comfort, and inhales the sweet smell of new life against the dark decay of burned earth. And then she smells something else, and it is strange, and finally she looks up.

The poor little mare's first though was that it was not windy so why was the tree moving?

Her second thought never showed up. There was no room for thoughts against the sudden onslaught of sight, the vision of an actually for real moving tree perched atop a horse perched atop the ground perched atop... what was the ground sitting on top of? She does not care. This is too much, too beautiful, and she stares at it, stares with her jaw on the floor and her body still. She has forgotten to breath. The vines on her back are startlingly animate against her still form, blooming and wilting and thorning and retreating, a stark painting of the excitement in her mind. She is amazed. She is entranced.

"Beautiful," she breathes into the air between them. She feels strong. She feels excited. She thinks she might be in love.

She is laughing, and the little grey girl can only stare in awe, bright crimson-rimmed eyes saucer wide as the movements create gorgeous, delicate ripples, smooth vibrations in the great tree that rests upon the beautiful creature's back. She is amazed, entranced; she feels as though her senses are heightened and tunneled, as though there is nothing else she can ever understand, ever embrace, ever appreciate. This bond of flora and fauna, this perfect and flawless combination... the laughter washes over her in waves, but she has forgotten what is funny.

It takes the sudden and excited chattering of a strange creature to draw her away, the barrage of movement and noise suddenly attracting her attention, startling her. She finds herself deeply confused and suddenly embarrassed, and she does not know why; it is as though she has captured something in its rawest, most naked form, and touched the purity within. She has sullied it with her gaze, has taken away from its beauty with the sharp intensity of her own flawed eyes. She does not think she is beautiful, and she knows in fact that she is nothing next to this creature, and the little animal on its back - what is it doing there? Suddenly she slices her ears back, appalled that something so usual could shatter the majesty of this heavenly creature, jealous of its closeness, curious as to its nature. What is it, and why has it come, and what has it done to gain the delight of the willow-horse's affections, and can she gain them, and does she deserve them, and...

The Willow-horse speaks, and instantly she is silenced, her eyes darting back to the creature and her displeasure washed away. Thorns, recently sprouted and viciously sharp, book an instant retreat in the wake of her words, replaced by vibrant flowers. The girl closes her eyes, but she can still see the beauty of the willow-mare, can feel the warmth of her energy coursing against the magic within her, and can feel her magic responding, reaching out tentatively to the tree, offering it strength and beauty, worshiping it. She wants it to grow, to surge with life and splendor, and she wants to be a part of it, and so she does not hold back because to do so would be selfish, because she suddenly has nothing else that matters to her except the beauty of this creature, because she can and will and must and because it feels so wonderful.

She does not notice her knees shaking, does not feel the ground spiraling towards her until she hits it. She is content with her decision, with the strength that is seeping away; she cannot hear anything but a melodious hum, a buzz of the earth as it reaches for her, the grass dimming to supply her suddenly desperate need for strength, the vines on her back wilting to float towards her heels. She is happy. She has seen beauty.

[ ooc || yeah idk what happened there. ]