Moonstone, i offer haycubes

Time has passed. The pink haired woman returns, once more wandering through a herd of feral ponies. To her surprise, she finds a familiar pony graze at the group's edge. Grey with dapples and white spots on his back. Those still look like dots of light, she finds herself almost expecting them starting to dance with the movement of trees in the wind. Only that there are not many leaves on the trees left and the gelding is far from the nearest one.

Moonstone. The woman has found how the community observing and caring for the feral herds have dubbed this particular gray gelding. It is an exceptionally fitting name, she finds. To match it, she has brought a light blue ribbon this time. The bell is blue greyish and rings softly. It stands to wonder where all the ribbons end up that the horses loose. Not long ago, the woman had tied one to this very gelding… and his mane is roached still, barely any longer. The bell ribbon likely won't hold well in it again, but such is tradition, right?

The woman greets the gelding and he bumps her hands with an impossibly soft muzzle. He noses at her clothes, takes a deep breath. Maybe he remembers her somewhat, she hopes he does, even if it's dimly.

Maybe some time spent together will reignite that memory. 

The woman goes to pet Moonstone's neck. She marvels at the different, shifting tones of gray and wonders how he'll look when it progresses. Maybe he's the type who greys out slowly. Maybe it'll be more visible with the next coat change. There's one way to find out- wrap the bell in his mane and hope to take him home. The woman carefully picks out where to put the fabric, even if there's really only one way to do it- grab a tuft of oddly short mane and wrap it in the ribbon. Firmly, but not so that it pulls at the roots. 

The woman tries to mix and match her tactic this time- making a mini braid, it barely counts as one, really, and braiding the ribbon in. One twist, two, then there's no more mane and it's time to wrap the little braid in the fabric. The bell jingles. The little geldings ears flick, he turns his head to watch. Him being not too tall, it's easy enough to work on Moonstone's mane. He seems to enjoy having it fussed with. Maybe that's why he allowed whoever roached his mane to do so. Still, who would cut a feral ponies tail and especially mane so short? It remains a mystery. 

The woman scrutinizes her handiwork. It looks good enough, she truly hopes it'll hold this time around. Braiding isn't that difficult, not at all- but feral horses likely have a thing or two to say about a strange object being attached to them. Or it's just their lifestyle accounting for the bells being lost.

Moonstone doesn't seem bothered by the bell, for one. So he's likely the latter. And it's not like there's that much for the ribbon to hold onto.

This time, the woman makes sure to take pictures of him. Even if he doesn't end up returning with her ribbon, it'll be nice to have this at least. She continues to pet him, noting that his coat is growing fuzzier. Just as the weather gets colder here, the ponies adapt. Moonstone is getting quite soft, but likely itchy beneath. The summer coat has yet to fully go. 

So of course his visitor lends a helping hand or two. Humming, she gets to work. She uses her hands to pluck and comb old fur out and Moonstone seems to deeply appreciate it. His lip wiggles, his head bops. He seems intent on grooming her back, which leads to him eventually nuzzling her messy pink hair. The shampoo smells foreign, but it's barely noticeable. It mainly smells of hay and animals and some smoke. 

Moonstone would like some hay about now, actually. Sometimes it's supplied in especially harsh winters. Hence, the hay cubes the woman feeds him soon after are a very welcome and opportune surprise. More so since there's herbs in them. He can't identify those, but they're nice. The woman seems delighted with his reaction- she's made the treats herself, added lavender and dandelion.

While Moonstone still chews, his visitor begins to pet his head. She traces his blaze again, forever enamoured by its shape resembling a crescent moon. His name really is a good fit. She wouldn't change it, she thinks; and he'd eventually learn it's his. 

The woman goes to check the braid- wrap again, though not much time has passed. And Moonstone has moved little, far from enough for an actual stress test of the woman's braidwork. She lightly grasps the wrap and stares at it, her humming has stopped. In her mind, she asks that this inanimate thing please, please, please do what it’s supposed to and hold and bring this gelding home. She promises the fabric it'll get a nice spot above the mantle, where it will be remembered fondly.

Moonstone has his head lightly turned, he watches from a half closed eye. It's almost as if he can sense his visitors' intense thoughts, but only almost. He chews, still tasting a faint bit of the tasty treats, and he thinks. After reaching a conclusion, he bumps the woman's arm, already missing the head pats she so kindly gives.