Horses - Brontava
Ken and Paul left the dog kennels covered in laughter and fur.
Golden hairs were still caught between Paul's feathers, and he brushed them out carefully, as if untangling gold threads.
"It tried to follow us," Ken said as they walked down the hall.
"Must've been hungry," Paul replied. "It kept wagging its tail for ten minutes straight."
"Same thing, really."
Paul laughed.
The air changed as they continued down the corridor. It grew cooler, filled with the scent of dust and hay.
Paul smelled it before he heard anything. He stopped, closed his eyes, and inhaled deeply.
"This smell," he murmured. "It's the smell of earth. Of breath. Of thunder."
"That's the smell of a stable," Ken said. "This is where we keep the horses."
"Horses," Paul repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a song. "Hor-ses."
Through a narrow slit in the stable wall, the setting sun streamed in. Under its golden light, animals stood one by one in their stalls.
Even standing still, they radiated motion.
They were enormous. Muscles rippled beneath sleek coats, and their round eyes held a power not yet released.
One turned its head toward Paul and snorted.
The warm breath hit him like a storm.
He stepped closer, stopping before a brown horse whose coat gleamed like polished wood. When it exhaled again, the current of air brushed through his feathers.
"Magnificent," Paul murmured. "And without wings, too."
"They don't need them," Ken said with a smile.
Paul carefully extended a wing. The horse dipped its head and gently nudged it, but the force nearly toppled him.
He flapped his wings to regain balance.
"So headbutts are greetings here?"
"Just a greeting," Ken said. "You have greetings in your world, don't you?"
"We usually ask permission before the headbutt," Paul replied, ruffling his feathers.
For a while, Paul stood silently, watching the horse.
Then he spoke softly.
“Just like a Brontava.”
"What's that?"
"An animal we used to ride. Descendant of a flat-mouthed dinosaur that lived by the rivers. Its legs grew long and hips narrow to chase storms."
He ran a wing gently through the horse's mane.
The texture was smooth, simple, alive.
"The Brontava's hide felt like this - smooth, firm. Feathers ran along its spine to regulate body heat, and its skull had hollow chambers for resonance. Each herd had its own call."
Ken leaned against the doorway, listening quietly.
"When we tamed them, we learned their calls. Not all of them - just those for fear, joy, calm. Instead of ropes, we guided them by voice. If they followed, they were tamed. If not, we let them go."
Paul imitated a few calls, and one of the horses pricked up its ears, as if understanding.
"It reacts to the word 'run,'" Paul said with a smile.
A handler brought over a large grey horse with a white mane.
"Gentle one. You can touch it."
Paul frowned slightly.
"Gentle? You call a companion gentle or fierce?"
He bowed his head as he approached.
To Ken, the gesture looked almost like a ritual bow.
The grey horse blinked, stepped closer, and pressed its forehead gently against Paul's.
A low rumble vibrated between them, making Paul's feathers twitch.
"We'll be good friends," Paul said. "If they could speak, they'd call us strange, but familiar."
"Back to poetry again," Ken said, folding his arms.
"Not poetry," Paul replied. "Just recognition."
They walked to the far end of the stable.
There, foals stood on reed-thin legs, staring at them with wide, curious eyes.
Paul crouched to examine one.
"So small, and already trying to stand. Brontava were the same - running before their feathers even dried after hatching."
He straightened, shaking his wings.
"Your horses use muscle; our Brontava used sound. Different means, same purpose - freedom."
Ken hesitated before asking,
"Do you miss them?"
Paul gave a chirping sigh.
"I miss the feeling of running among resonant cries - the rhythm of hooves and heartbeats. This world… is too quiet."
He looked out through the narrow window.
The red light of sunset spilt across the hay.
"They'd have liked it here. There are skies worth remembering."
As they turned to leave, one horse neighed loudly.
The cry echoed down the corridor, filling the stable.
Paul turned, pointing.
"That one. It has potential."
"Potential for what?" Ken asked.
"A storm-caller's voice. If it sang a little deeper, it could summon one."
"Sounds like it's just neighing to me," Ken said.
"Then you're not really listening," Paul replied with a grin.
Researcher Ken Lee - Observation Log
Paul Tree described the Brontava as though he were both a biologist and an old friend.
I wonder whether this comes from nostalgia or reverence for animal life.
Further study recommended.
