Willfur
The firefly-horse seems unbothered by obstacles or footing as it slips silently through the forest, cantering smoothly, only its outline wavering slightly to accommodate trees and brush where Willfur, comically ungraceful in comparison, zig-zags and crashes noisily behind, struggling through darkness and vegetation to keep apace. Huffing in effort and annoyance, he yanks himself free of a prickly holly bush for what must be the fifth time when the glowing figure rearranges itself into a perfect illustration of a gallop and begins to pull even farther ahead. The mule groans, resigning himself to a day spent rubbing thorns and prickly seed pods out of his coat as he mutters testily, "I'm coming."
Either in response, or maybe just for the joy of the movement, more fireflies gather and tighten into glowing, galloping figures around him, like a bright, ethereal hunt that funnels him forward, casting more than enough light to see by and safely accelerate, which he does, letting himself be swept up in the excitement of tossing heads and whipping manes, watching sidelong as individual fireflies repeatedly slip loose and dive back into the whole of the churning figures as they rush on.
It's a shock when they finally break through the tree line and into the meadow, the firefly-horses skittering and romping to a halt, coronas of light stretching unfettered between them and across the open space. Again, Willfur copies as best he can, stopping and blowing hard where he stands. What now? He can only stare dumbly as the mist and the fireflies swirl around him, syllables he can't quite discern or organize into words rising and falling with the wind, his oversize ears no help for once as they pivot atop his blocky head.
Perhaps he should be more wary, more concerned with having been led to a secluded area and surrounded by otherworldly beings of unknown motivation and intention, but once the mist condenses and settles into a recognizable shape, one that he holds an especial liking for, all the mule has space for in his heart is joy and tenderness.
He's always loved children. He admires their candidness, their lack of any agenda but fun and interesting and exciting. If the mist-foal or its companions have any maliciousness in them, he's willing to let the first blow land in demonstration before he condemns them simply for being specters. None of them can help what they are, mist or mule.
"Hello, little one." He breathes in welcome, and when the mist-foal rears and dodges away from him, dancing and playing across the meadow, he smiles broadly in answer, his dorsal stiped back arching and sending him hopping along behind, ears flapping like wild flags of indiscretion in their wake. This is a language he understands.
"talk talk talk"
@Official Dawn Account
OOC: Willfur plays with the mist-spirits
