You know that moment in survival films when the marooned protagonist, on the brink of utter despair, is finally found (as the soundtrack swells dramatically) by a well-meaning stranger whose face is the first of their kind they have seen in a truly ungodly amount of time?
This was...not quite that moment. Martin caught sight of the willowy colt as he burst forth from the forest's edge, muscles jumping beneath his flesh as he reined in the instinctive urge to balk at the first suggestion of an ambush. The painted boy's exuberant greeting - oozing the sort of easy acceptance the fiery unicorn remembered from his birthplace - dispelled whatever specters of doubt lingered about his shoulders. He turned to properly address the energetic colt, a smile twitching threateningly at the corners of his lips.
Did this stranger live here? Or had he been drawn here from afar as Martin had been, another soul to stamp to some unseen piper's tune?
He traced the songbird's path for a moment as it fluttered unhappily from its prior perch upon the lanky colt, inquisitiveness a palpable thing in his sea-blue eyes. The unicorns of his birthplace had no strong connection with the creatures around them, save an overarching desire for coexistence. They might have forgiven the panther his hunger or begrudged the crow its covetousness, but they stopped short of making friends even with the most gregarious of their number.
"My name is Martin," the young stallion replied as the smile he had been holding at bay crept into the corners of his eyes. "Is that your bird, Po?"
The manner in which he grasped at those words hinted perhaps at the foreignness of the idea that the bird might belong to him, and had it not been for that stellar moment of culture-shock the gilded unicorn might have asked a 'properly useful' question instead. But on the off chance the boy had befriended the little creature, Martin imagined it would be unconscionably rude to dismiss it out of hand.
@Ipomoea
(not at all, he's great!)
