Willoughby has never been somewhere so big.
The plains ripple out around him, a sea of golden grasses rolling away to the horizon, as far as he can see. Clouds float like puffs of cotton in the distance; a dim gray shape swims against the pale blue of the sky, and it takes the young pegasus some time, walking toward it, to realize that this is the far-off ghost of a mountain.
The Roost had been large, of course, in its way, with its steep cliffs and long, narrow valley, and Willoughby had gazed out often enough from its ramparts. Every pegasus knows what it is to look down from a height—to see the world unfolding below him, vast and wild and promising as the wind under his wings. But Willoughby has lived his life above, beneath, between things. He has never before stood in a place so… open.
It makes him feel small, wading through the tall yellow grass, his wings held loosely at his sides. And he is glad, in that moment, to feel small—to feel his sense of wonder welling up and spilling over, to stare around him and see nothing but possibility.
It is one thing to glimpse the world from far away; it is another thing entirely to find yourself lost in the middle of it.
And so he walks, whistling quietly to himself, his thoughts a dreamy flurry. He does not know where he is; he is not even sure, anymore, how long he has been traveling. For a heartbeat he feels a pang as he thinks of the Roost, of his family, of the flock he’s left behind—
—but the Roost is no place for him, not anymore. And here the sun is shining brightly, warming his back, setting the grays and browns and golds of his wings to glowing.
There’s a rustling up ahead, and Willoughby cocks his pale face to the side, his ears pricking forward. “Hello?” Perhaps he should feel wary, but he is too eager, too swept up by adventure, to bother with caution. Excitement tugs him into a trot, and he nearly prances the last few steps as the stranger emerges from the long grass. “I’m Willoughby! Is this your home?”
The plains ripple out around him, a sea of golden grasses rolling away to the horizon, as far as he can see. Clouds float like puffs of cotton in the distance; a dim gray shape swims against the pale blue of the sky, and it takes the young pegasus some time, walking toward it, to realize that this is the far-off ghost of a mountain.
The Roost had been large, of course, in its way, with its steep cliffs and long, narrow valley, and Willoughby had gazed out often enough from its ramparts. Every pegasus knows what it is to look down from a height—to see the world unfolding below him, vast and wild and promising as the wind under his wings. But Willoughby has lived his life above, beneath, between things. He has never before stood in a place so… open.
It makes him feel small, wading through the tall yellow grass, his wings held loosely at his sides. And he is glad, in that moment, to feel small—to feel his sense of wonder welling up and spilling over, to stare around him and see nothing but possibility.
It is one thing to glimpse the world from far away; it is another thing entirely to find yourself lost in the middle of it.
And so he walks, whistling quietly to himself, his thoughts a dreamy flurry. He does not know where he is; he is not even sure, anymore, how long he has been traveling. For a heartbeat he feels a pang as he thinks of the Roost, of his family, of the flock he’s left behind—
—but the Roost is no place for him, not anymore. And here the sun is shining brightly, warming his back, setting the grays and browns and golds of his wings to glowing.
There’s a rustling up ahead, and Willoughby cocks his pale face to the side, his ears pricking forward. “Hello?” Perhaps he should feel wary, but he is too eager, too swept up by adventure, to bother with caution. Excitement tugs him into a trot, and he nearly prances the last few steps as the stranger emerges from the long grass. “I’m Willoughby! Is this your home?”
stock from DA
