Moonstone

A pink haired woman wanders the vast fields. The wind is colder than what she expected- autumn seems to be earlier than what was forecasted. 

Berry bushes are bearing their possibly poisonous, brightly coloured fruits. They draw the eye, and so do some of the colourful ponies grazing nearby. The grass is no longer the lush green of summer, it is darker- and yet seems to sustain the hardy ponies just fine.

A bell ribbon is wrapped around the woman's arm. Blue, like her eyes, blue, her favourite colour. The bell jingles with her steps, sometimes the wind tussles it, along with the woman's hair and clothes.

Scanning the field, the woman passes through the herd of ponies. Some sniff her for a moment, others barely look up. For a feral sort, they're very unperturbed by a stranger's presence.

Then, the woman spots something behind the particularly high berry bush. A flash of gray, a swish of a short-ish tail. She rounds the bush and finds a little grey gelding, who looks at her with warm, brown eyes. 

His ears swivel with mild curiosity. He seems used to people coming around- someone must have cut his mane and tail, and recently at that. His visitor wonders why. Is that allowed? The tradition states to braid the bell into the mane… it can't be easy when so little mane is left. 

The woman allows the gelding to sniff her hand. She takes the time for a closer look. His head marking is unusual, but very pretty. It reminds her of a rising moon. His coat is grey, but unevenly so. Parts of him look almost a bit dirty. He is very cute. A little grey gelding suddenly feels just like the perfect addition to her mares at home. But she has to gauge his temper first, of course. 

She is quiet and does not speak much to him. But she hums and he seems to enjoy this new but welcome sound. 

Carefully, the woman pets his forehead, traces the moon- like marking there. Then, she boops the white spots on his back, the ones which stand out like sparkles of moonlight. The gelding turns his head to watch, he doesn't seem concerned with the pattern of his own fur. But he cares for the ensuing neck scratches, placed right where his short mane grows. 

Indeed, he begins to develop some curiosity to his visitor now and nibbles her shirt. The texture is strange, especially compared to the coats of his pony companions. This two legged one smells like other ponies, like dirt and much else. It's curious. 

His pink nose would burn in the intense summer sun of the forgone season, yet the woman's skin is intact. There are callouses on her hands, which pet so adeptly. The grey gelding had seen children visitors before, whose hands were often strangely sticky. He didn't mind it too much, but finds himself preferring this quiet, softly humming person. 

She seems to feel similarly, as she begins to unwrap the bell ribbon from her wrist. It jingles and flutters and she lets the gelding sniff and nibble it. It didn't bother him when it was on her, which is a good sign.

Now to place it, that is the question and task. The mane, it stands so short. But those are the rules. Or the tradition? The visitor suddenly isn't so sure. But not wanting to make a possible misstep, she gathers a bit of the roached mane, then tightly and skillfully wraps the ribbon around it. The bell ends up handing down, occasionally bumping the geldings neck. This, he doesn't mind much either.

The woman takes a step back to look at her handiwork. It... should do. Its functional, is all that matters in the end. Still, she decides to stay for a little longer and see if it holds for the first bit of time. The gelding noses her hand. Those neck scratches again, please. His visitor happily obliges, humming a calm tune. She also runs her hand along his back, then carefully expands the area. The gelding watches and she often looks back, checking for his reaction. Is his back hurting? No? His belly? How does this feel? Are there warm spots? Swelling?

The gelding of course doesn't understand why she's doing this. But it's nice to be massaged and had the bonus of shooing the season's few surviving flies away, which he can't swat well with his tail this short. Some spots tickle, too. He learns he likes his belly scratched, even more so than his neck. 

But when the woman goes to trace the geldings forehead marking again, he deems this his favourite. It has something so very soothing and this time, he leans in a little. He suddenly feels sleepy, but not yet confident in napping by a stranger's side. Then again he doesn't want the pets to stop, a battle between sleep and staying awake ensues. He doesn't fight very fiercely, instead, just sways a little, his eyelids flutter and whenever he's about to drift away, he puffs and snorts. It keeps him awake for a bit, then the dance begins anew.

The woman wishes she could film this. It would fit perfectly with all other media on her comm, animal photos and videos and pictures of forage, crops and her fields. But her hands are busy petting this little gelding and it would likely break the little spell that seems to linger about them.