Foreer.

I can imagine it.

I can imagine her, a pristine white coat with markings, a smudge down her nose, underneath her eyes, across her back, the fronts of her legs, and her hooves- as deep as it is brilliant, a royal blue, deeper than the sky at twilight. How? How? That I do not know.

I wander... What was it? What is it!

A small thing she is, no horns, never will be. No mask, she does not need it, it would obscure her view of nature she would say.

I can see.

I see her curled tresses drifting in the breeze as she rests in her favourite places, whether it be near the Twin Gods statues, betwixt a few trees, on nestled among the blossoms of the flowers. Why? Why? That I do not know.

She does not speak. Deer do not speak? Yes, right, but nor does she bellow or buck. Quiet as the drifting of a leaf in a pond, she is still for the most times, waiting. Waiting for what? That I do not know.

When others approach she'll bolt, bolt away! Away! Bolt back! Her hooves dance, Around! Around! Come! Where? That I do not know.

When does she come?

That.

Call for her, she might come.

But you be honest, you be true, for I know not what will happen to you.