It is not the mare who answers her.
Her eyes shoot swiftly towards the apparition, and her heart sinks down to her hooves, heavy with icy fear. Her knees tremble and her ears fall back; for all her waspishness with the pegasus mare only moments before, the filly is promptly cowed by the frightful visage of the stranger who appears from the mist. Her head is low, and her breaths come deep. Even though what he says is a direct answer to her question, the filly barely hears it, too focused on the sharp teeth which shine in the male’s mouth.
His alien-appearance frightens her, but his demeanor does more. If she’d met any of the Rift’s natives before now, she might have simply have deduced that this was just how they were; cruel, dark, and somewhat twisted. Living in such a terrible place helped forge those aspects, of course, and perhaps made them more forgivable. Gwyn, however, does not like the man. Not just because he is frightening, of course, but because, through the trembling of her dainty limbs and the stammering terror of her thoughts as she sweeps her eyes across him, Gwyn sees someone who delights in being unkind to others.
Her small squeak of fear at the suggestion that he was the beastie is barely audible over Taivas’ question, the grown woman obviously handling the situation with the haunting, unkind fellow much more adeptly than quivering Gwyn. Before too long, however, the brat of the north finds her voice again. Not before she has sidled closer to the glowing mare, however, finding great comfort in the nearness of her larger form, despite having been quite annoyed with her moments before.
“Yeah,” she echoes, less boldly than the painted woman had (so, Uwaritace is the tree, she finally finds a moment to think, as she sweeps her eyes up the fire blackened giant, and feels the sorrow radiating through the air with much more understanding than she had a few minutes prior), “’cause you might talk, and this tree too, but I’ve been chased by lots of things here. And they don’t say anything, ‘cept ‘rrraghhhh!’”
She does her best beastie impression, shaking her head ferociously to allow her small, golden dagger of a horn to sweep uselessly through the air, and stamping her fore-hooves alternately. It’s a very short display of a second or two, but is portrayed by a frightened, albeit committed, actress, who does her best to be brave in the face of adversary.
“Besides,” she adds, feeling more bold now that she has broken through her initial fear, “you don’t look like any of the beasties I’ve seen, even if you do have teeth.”
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Uwaritace
