As she’d figured, everyone else gives in to the bully’s game; Galahad’s expression stiffens, and Zahra immediately seems to lose forty more degrees, which was impressive to Gwyn, considering how aloof she had been before. The tension in the clearing peaks, and the filly, bold, but not stupid, feels a bit of worry begin to nag at her. Taking a moment to pick a path out, if the adults start fighting, or the aggressive one goes full feral, Gwyn’s eyes fleetingly dance along the perimeter of the jungle, bordering the huge tree.
Glad when her magic seems to appease the angry person, in some way, the filly starts to smile, hiding her sudden tiredness behind a child’s pride – before the others ruin all her work. Though there is something less violent about the way the painted stranger rounds of them, this time, its still aggressive enough to make the little filly’s ears tilt back.
Shh, she wants to snip at Galahad, but she doesn’t know him very well, and he’s already said it, besides. The little one of gilded snow is then very relieved when, rather than pushing the colt over (or worse), the warrior just laughs. That relief quickly becomes wary concern, however, when the laughter leaves the stranger (who moments before seemed defensive, aggressive, and unlikely to do such a thing) falls to the ground.
The girl’s eyes hunker down, over her icy stare. She had seen grandfather fall, last, but it had been from weakness, not mirth (she was a rather serious child, our Gwyn – she knew little about giggle fits). What was she not seeing?
Listening, as the aggressive but subdued one rambles, Gwyn finds she agrees with much of it. Wondering why this person (woman, she was slowly determining) decided to speak such wisdom with so much uncouth dramatics was beyond her, at least until she suddenly shouts out what seems to be a name. The conversation there on is suddenly diverted to whoever Midas is – which is not Zahra.
Stay away from the crazy ones, arrives her father’s warning, clearly replaying in her mind.
“Her name is Zahra,” the princess answers, perhaps audaciously, because the mare surely has the ability to defend and name herself. Besides - why did Gwyn even care if she was rude back? They were both rude and insensitive, and to children, none the less. Still, her father’s warnings about the mad had also come with a note of sympathy; some were just lost, he’d told her, as if he knew personally what such a statement meant. “And I’m Gwyn, and this is Galahad.”
She looks to the golden boy as she mentions him, her smile supportive.
“Who are you?” coolly questions the babe, her pale eyes searching the madwoman’s face.
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Rainforest Cliffs
