Solira: The Ocean: permissions;

Well of course Passchendaele doesn’t know what ‘murderer’ means, and the little crease digs deeper as he contemplates this. It seems he is utterly unaware of how the pair encircles him, but this isn’t so – it’s more a matter of being quite keenly aware, to the extent that it doesn’t alarm him. Their movements and faces mean trouble but not danger, and this is enough to render him still and disinterested as he considers his own actions and how this might relate to ‘murderer’. He concludes it must have something to do with the crab – perhaps critter mashers are better known as ‘murderers’?

He turns his black gaze to the boy that spoke to him, sizing him up patiently, noting the limp and deciding he would be easy to outrun, especially in the sand. Too big to squash, that’s for sure. The girl he isn’t so sure of – she’s smaller than the boy, but still bigger than Passchendaele, and could likely keep up. Could he outsmart them? He could use a few more days to come into his own.

The gaze roams, seeking his mother. Enola Gay stands far off, so far he cannot hear her speaking at all, but he notes as her ears swivel round, catching the events most horses would never hear. Few things can sneak past my Vane, I’m afraid. He waits and watches, feels the gust of wind brush the backs of his ankles as she gathers details of the scene. She will know, then, that one other than Passchendaele carries her blood in this crowd, though the colt does not realize it yet. She does not turn her head; it makes no difference if her eyes are focused on the scene. She waits for Passchendaele’s cry.

When it doesn’t come, when his hard eyes drift off and return to the circling pair, she knows she has lost him – for now. And they’re quite right… this doesn’t bother her in the slightest. He’s old enough to have the chance of survival, and smart enough to do so. That being said, she has already resolved to retrieve him. She was getting rather used to his stumbling, warm little presence by her legs. And furthermore, she will have to introduce him to Chapal sooner or later…

Passchendaele, who unlike his mother has no idea where this is going, turns back to the boy and says simply, “Well I don’t know what that is, but perhaps I am.” He tilts his head and his lazy eye flies wild; a small, coiled plume of smoke, about all of his element he can muster thusfar, puffs out of the tear duct. Lot of defects in this inbred little society of theirs.