Two days' hunger makes a fine sauce for anything

Little blue foal, with your sparkling gaze and your ever soft touch, you move to sample the delightful looking moss, though little are you aware of it’s blood-curdling scream. You have heard it before - that splitting sound through the trees - yet, innocent all the same is your intention to feed.  There comes a different sound, however, to woo your focus and lure away your interest; it’s friendly sound intrigues your ears and quickens the drum of your young, vibrant heart. That tiny skull lifts quickly, without hesitation, and it collides into the swollen underbelly of an utterly enormous leaf balanced overhead; the rims bend and water pours from its cup, down across your pretty chiselled features and then in splashing rivulets, off away to the ground.  Stunned by the chill and caught by surprise, you stand stuck with spluttering breath for a moment, with water-matted lashes fluttering about.  Still, the moment of distraction is brief, for that call - so like Indra’s - is firmly woven through your mind; it breeds a murmur of determination. When the channels ease their flow, and your eyes again are free, you discover that the stranger is upon you, stumbling, tumbling, through the undergrowth. A startled squeal slips your lips with his, and you stagger with perfectly equal grace as his lumbering path concludes amid a sprawl of sinister thorn.  For a time you simply stare, with a neck slumped low for vantage until the tickle of over-thrilled wing beats irritates your breast. Stop, you tell them vainly, they’ve never listened before and your plush, pale blue maw moves to push them into rest.  The wings perched atop each flank give you hardly the same grief.  Your gaze still sits squarely upon the foal - the colt - as he struggles in the briar and you think to yourself, he looks real funny, giggling your sweet amusement into the humid, smelly air between. But as the seconds bleed by, you move to be more useful, stepping a neat cloven hoof to pin a length down. “Thith way,” you grin, gesturing with a small swing of your face and twitch of quilled wings (the larger, obedient pair).  You notice as you wait, with everlasting patience, that his breath is hoarse - a quiet roar - and in thoughtful contemplation, your head veers sideways. “You ok?” Though still the smile is wrapped snug around your mouth, there is a faint flicker of concern peaking through your tone.

Lines | Colouring

@Varuna -  sorry, zahra’s muse crash killed my motivation, so I am falling back to a better-trusted style with little eira