Learning to Fly {o}

[Ehetere]

Faster, faster, faster. The slope got steeper but her wild pace did not slacken. Her blood was on fire, the drumming beat of her hooves and the whispers of the wind filled her ears, egging her on. Faster… faster.

The grullo yearling was shedding her winter coat, exchanging her smoky hide for something paler. Sure footed as a rock wallaby, she put on another spurt of speed as the ground at the bottom of the slope came up to meet her. Leaping over rocks at a precarious speed, she checked her pace ever so slightly as she came to the edge of a cliff. She turned, her body in perfect balance as she flew through space before rocketing off along the edge once more.

Dulloora gave a joyous whinny to the wind then, for her small body could simply not contain it all. Should her mother discover her here she would be in a world of trouble, but the young filly was cunning and had slipped away unseen. None would be here to cloud her wondrous flight down the Ramsheads today.

She ran on and on, no company besides the wind and a silver-shouldered kite high above. Eventually though, Dulloora began to tire, and came to a halt on a little plateau, partially hidden from view by a copse of gnarled old snowgums that had been sculpted by the harsh winds of many a storm. She was thirsty, but opted to stay and rest in the dappled shade, cropping half heartedly at the grass underfoot.

The day was young, but already it was bustling with life and activity. A small family of wombats bustled by, giving the little filly a nervous glance. Dulloora stared curiously after them, whinnying in a way that almost sounded like laughter. Cheekily, she trotted up behind them, only to receive a low warning growl from the biggest as he hurried his family on. All the same she couldn’t help but snort after them, blowing up the dust something shocking. Life was fresh and new for the young filly, with the whole High Country as her playground.

[{ Opal }]

Muffled squeals carried on the wind, the cry of a young filly, and by the sound of it she was having a load of fun. Bultarro lifted his head, which was rather fetching, although its owner would probably not have considered the thought. Having a bay-and-white pelt in a pinto pattern, and ice-blue eyes, he was often looked at curiously, to which he would respond by telling the impolite brumbies to mind their own business.

Bultarro raised his muzzle, pink and splotched with black, still chewing his grass. His trim ears pricked, following the noises that had brought him from his breakfast.

He made the sudden decision to abandon his patch of grass, and started moving up the rocky slope, beyond which he had heard the filly. His round hooves dug into the gravelly earth, his sturdy legs heaving himself upward without too much effort. At last he reached the top, and set his hooves on flatter ground. Bultarro stopped and listened, but upon hearing no more he sniffed the air inquisitively. The sound of the filly's laughter had simply been too irresistible for him. After all, it wasn't at all fair for her to have a merry time while he was making himself busy munching on grass? Bultarro shook his head, his white mane flapping against his strong neck, his black forelock being slung aside.

Finding the right scent, that of a young female brumby, Bultarro trotted eagerly toward it. He lowered his head to avoid the outstretching branches of the snowgums, which stood like a barrier in his way. He soon breached that barrier, and came out upon a little plateau, well concealed and rather peaceful-seeming. Bultarro took a moment to listen to the chattering birds, and then he swept his blue gaze across the expanse. There, surrounded by a settling dust cloud, was the filly. She was a pretty grullo, only but a yearling.

Bultarro whinnied to her in greeting, for he was rather glad to not be on his lonesome any longer. Bultarro himself was but two years old, old enough to be on his own but not much more than that. His burning energy was just waiting to be released, and it seemed this filly shared the same predicament.

[Ehetere]

The scratch of branches and leaves on hide had the grullo filly alert, ears pricked and peering into the bush warily. There was not much to gain by a stallion in collecting a mere yearling, a little one at that, but her mother had taught her to be very cautious around them none the less. “You are of my blood and your fathers. A prize indeed,” she had said.

The head of a young colt appeared from the thicket, followed by a brown and white body. He seemed friendly enough, and though her mother’s voice still nagged her in the back of her mind, Dulloora was far too boisterous for caution now.

Bounding over, she gave him a cheeky nip on the shoulder as her way of greeting. There were no colts in her father’s herd, only fillies, so she had no chance of really getting acquainted with them whatsoever. Her mother certainly would not allow her to go and visit any of her own accord, so this really was her first impression of an outside male, other than the few her mother had quickly disposed of.

The colt was older than her, and though not the largest two year old out there no doubt, compared to the petite filly he was rather large indeed. This did not deter Dulloora however, far from it. There was a mischievous glint in her eye, and she danced a few steps away, inviting him to join her in her game. The winds were calling her name again, calling her back to the high peaks and her family, but she ignored them for something stronger stirring in her blood.

Bounding away once more, she leapt to the top of a small boulder at the edge of the clearing, calling, mocking, teasing, enticing with wild abandon. Horses for miles around would surely hear here, were there any horses to hear. Laughing, she called to the colt, called him to follow her and chase her. A merry chase was just what she was feeling like this day, a run to end all runs that would set her blood on fire.

The breeze buffeted her lithe frame, stronger than it would have been in the lower country because of the altitude. No, today she would not bow to the winds call, she would fight it for as long as she wanted before letting it drag her back home.

[{ Opal }]

Bultarro watched the filly with a relaxed expression, his eyes glinting with the faintest amusement as he awaited her reaction to his sudden appearance. She looked at him, her round ears thrown forward and her gaze curious. And then she ran toward him in great, leaping bounds, her teeth slipping out at the last second to nip his shoulder. Bultarro had not expected this sort of greeting, but he took it in stride, half-rearing and squealing in mock anger. As soon as his four hooves touched the earth again, she was off. She danced away from him, mischief lighting up her eyes. Bultarro immediately grew to like her, for her feistiness and free spirit. No questions, no worries, just plain old fun.

Bultarro leapt for the filly, but she evaded him, leaping upon a large rock. From there she teased him, her whinnies floating across the clearing and tickling his ears. Bultarro snorted, shaking his head. “Now you don’t really expect me to go fetch you, do you?” he demanded, his voice stern. But his sparkling blue eyes were telling a different story. He sighed, saying, “Fine, I will go get you, but only because you are so darned charming!”

Bultarro came for her at a trot, his creamy white tail (tipped with black) swinging as he went. As he came near the beat of his clopping hooves quickened, and he was at a canter, his legs moving smoothly underneath him. With a merry cry and a toss of his head, he pulled up to the boulder at a fast speed. “Better run!” he bellowed, and seconds later he threw himself upon the boulder, his hooves finding their place with surprising grace as he managed to fit his larger body upon the stone.

[Ehetere]

Dulloora paused, one dainty fore hoof raised off the ground as she looked down upon the colt from her perch. His praise was more than enough to egg her on, offering him an exuberant, carefree whinny that echoed about the rocks as he approached with deliberate strides of his white legs.

Still the filly did not move, waiting, waiting, until the colt was dangerously close to colliding with her. At the last moment before she was knocked senseless from her precipice, the faded grulla filly was flying through space, leaping higher as though she had wings, to escape.

Landing lightly, nimbleness apparent in spades, she laughed, a high pealing sound filled with mischief and excitement. Bucking playfully at the colt’s oncoming form, she was off again, like a wisp of smoke – scraggly pepper and grey tail held high like her father’s. Surefooted, she leapt the occasional boulder and twisted and moved if her landing was not as solid as it had first appeared. All the while she was calling the colt after her, hearing the muffled sound of his pursuit over the sound of the wind rushing past her ears.

She was hardly going her fastest, for this was a run for play where losing your pursuer would run the game, and not a race with the wind itself. Instead she arched her neck like she’d sometimes seen her mother do, and tossed her mane about so even at its short length it would dance like her legs, weaving intricate patterns to capture the attention of all who looked on – the audience of two in this case. None would see the leggy grullo dancing and running and teasing but a brown and white colt and a hawk above, constantly circling.

Skidding to a stop atop a shaley hilltop, she swung her torso around in a half rear so she could face the colt. Her expression was still plafull and teasing, and it was a testament to her breeding that her breath was still light and controlled. “What do they call you?” cooed the filly, laughter still at the edge of her voice.

[{ Opal }]

Bultarro was not disappointed when the grullo evaded him, for if he hit her at that speed her mother would likely be very angry with him. As she took flight Bultarro hurdled after her, flinging himself from the boulder. His hooves smacked down against the rocky earth, and then he was off again. Bultarro ran after the filly in bounds, his strides evening out into a steady gallop. The filly was quick and nimble, flying over rocks and stray branches, but she was admittedly smaller than he and so he soon gained ground.

Bultarro snorted and tossed his head, encouraged as he drew ever closer to the filly. She was a beautiful creature, he saw, her soft, smooth coat colored in pretty silver, grey, and ivory hues. Her long legs carried her almost soundlessly across the ground, her mane and tail streaming out behind her. Her coy, teasing cries whipped toward him on the rising wind.

Bultarro grunted as his hind hooves smacked against a fallen tree trunk in mid-jump. It did not slow his pace, but it refocused him, and he put on a new burst of speed. The filly twisted unexpectedly, flinging herself up a gravelly hillside and slowing at the crest. Suddenly feeling mischievous, Bultarro made to circle around the other side and catch her there. But she came to a stop and whirled around, fixing him in her gaze. Bultarro gave up the fight, easing to a stop. Then he looked up at her good-naturedly, his nostrils flared slightly as he caught his breath.

“What do they call you?” the filly asked, her voice still giddy from laughter. “I suppose it depends on who ‘they’ are,” Bultarro responded, humor tainting his voice as he cleverly evading her question. But then he fessed up, saying, “Aye, Bultarro is my name, for the north wind I was born under.” By the time he finished speaking he had already started climbing up the hillside, his strong haunches vaulting him up the rocky slope. He reached the top, and took in a deep breath that smelled like the distant snowy mountains. Bultarro cocked his head and cast her a curious look. “And you?” he asked.

But before she could answer his head suddenly whipped around like a snake’s, his teeth flashing. He nipped her soundly on the shoulder, not unlike she had done to him earlier in the day. “Aha! Got you!” he exclaimed in triumph, arching his neck proudly and pawing at the ground.

[Ehetere]

Watching curiously as he circled about, Dulloora eyed off the colt suspiciously. He’d better not try any funny business – she didn’t want to be dragged around in a herd just yet, she wanted to enjoy her freedom a little more. And some independence when her mother finally released her from the herd. It wasn’t fair! How come her brothers were both forced out as yearlings in the early spring and she was kept there against her will? Madness.

All the same, she was not there now, and although she would have to return later she was going to enjoy herself now. The paint was clever – at least he did not appear to have boulders for brains. She liked him – a sense of humor was greatly appreciated after living with her mother and father for her entire life. Two more serious and humorless horses did not exist in the whole of the high country she was certain – they didn’t have any idea of how to take a joke.

“The North Wind is something noble to call your name, to be sure,” she remarked, her voice serious – unbeknownst to the colt actually imitating her mother’s voice very well. Her eyes were still laughing though, as she looked down at the colt, rather pleased with herself for attracting such an entertaining playmate. Unmoving and unconcerned as he made his way up the little knoll to stand beside her, she flicked an ear briefly in the direction of a sound – a rock being knocked down a hillside a fair way off. She was not too worried though, up here on the Ramsheads everything was so open, there was no cover for virtually anything, making sneaking up rather impossible.

Without warning the colt gave her a swift nip on the shoulder, causing the filly’s ears to immediately snap around to lie flat against her neck while her eyes flashed with brief anger. Though she did not have her mother’s temperament, she had inherited something of her temper. But it seemed the colt had meant it in good humor, so she relaxed her position pretty quickly.

“I am Dulloora, the small grey bird who would race the north wind itself,” she replied, mane softly rippling in the wind as she gazed off to the south, as it so happened, where the outline of the South Ramshead jutted out of the land, a great monolith reaching for the sky. “I am the daughter of the Whirlwind.”

[{ Opal }]

”The north wind is something noble to call your name, to be sure,” she said to him, and from the tone of her voice Bultarro gathered that this was not one of her jokes. He took the compliment lightly; he was not a vain stallion, rather a quite modest creature. “Aye, ‘tis alright for a name,” Bultarro said in his loose, casual speech, which could come across as uncivilized but all the same it had a pleasant feel.

Bultarro’s ears twitched at the sound of a loosed rock, a good distance away but still audible. He brought his head up, nose twitching. He was an alert brumby, could perhaps be called “bushwise” even for his green age. Still, Bultarro was not paranoid, and he soon relaxed as no more sounds ensued. Like the filly, he knew that there was too much open space to hide a sizeable threat.

Bultarro looked back at the filly. She seemed a bit disgruntled, even angry, at his surprise hit. He was slightly surprised, but not too much so. She looked like a nice enough brumby, but he would have likely reacted similarly to such a sudden bite. She soon relaxed, and at last gave her name he had asked for earlier. Dulloora, small grey bird, he repeated to himself. Daughter of the whirlwind. He chuckled. “Your name fits you well,” he said, and meant it. “Perhaps when you’re older, we’ll see who would win: the bird or the wind.”

Bultarro lifted his head, his gaze sweeping out across the Ramshead. He had spent a good amount of time with Dulloora, and as much as he hated it, he knew he had to move on soon and leave her. The Ramshead was not exactly the best pickings for grass, water, or mares, and so he was planning on passing through quickly.

Bultarro looked regretfully at Dulloora. “Well, I better get a move on, before the day grows too old.” he said. Then a sudden idea loomed in his mind. “Come with me, Dulloora,” he implored. Yes, she was young, but perhaps she could put this fact behind her, and run with him for a time.

OOC: Eek, sorry for the delay!