Willfur
There's a shout and clatter of hooves, the sound swelling and quickening as it approaches, reverberating in his ears even above the crashing water. Willfur stumbles back, buffeted by a sudden onslaught of noise and color and scent as something, someone rushes past him at top speed.
Is that guy really going to-?
Yep, yep he is.
All the claybank can do is stare in disbelief. He watches, gaping, as the little stallion, the tiny madman, bunches his hindquarters and springs, arching up and away from the safety of the bank, soaring out over the river without even a microseconds thought or hesitation that he can see. The mule's great ears plane out to either side, confused, anxious, disturbed.
Is he witnessing a suicide?
It's an elegant way to go though, with tucked knees and red and black tail splaying out behind him like a banner of insanity. The guy doesn't even look perturbed as he submerges, instantly swallowed whole and dragged a ways downstream by the raging current before resurfacing. Willfur winces, knowing it must hurt to be violently pushed and pulled like that, rag-dolling from boulder to boulder until finally, astonishingly, the little stallion finds traction - or some last, desperate strength - and hauls himself onto an outcropping of stone.
"What in the ever-loving-" He starts to rebuke the stranger, annoyance born of fear, at its base level, souring his normally even tone, but he's interrupted by, 'Are you coming?'
'Are you coming?'
Barking laughter heaves unexpectedly through his chest, forcing him to lower his head and wipe his eyes and nose on his knees. "You're nuts aren't you? No, I won't be coming in! And how are you going to get out?" Then, kinder, the gravity of the situation sinking in, "Do you need help?"
He's fairly certain he can see a few patches scraped clean of hair and welling tiny red droplets on the stallion's coat, but since he seems so determined not to look shaken, the clay-colored mule chooses not to comment.
Best not to incite the mentally ill.
@Ezital
