When Syrille entered the stables, she was greeted by the whinny of all the horses but loudest of all her favorite stallion, a gold and white palomino. She smiled. Over the past few weeks since he'd been brought to the palace, she and the stallion, whom she dubbed Atticus. formed a strange kinship. She swore up and down (metaphorically of course, she'd been a lady once and a lady, mustn't swear) that he understood her when she spoke to him.<br/><br/>"Good morning to you too." She grabbed a brush and approached the stallion's side. She held her hands open to reveal that she wasn't in fact hiding any treats, then gave his nose a pat before beginning to rub him down, chattering conversationally to him all the while.<br/><br/>"-and i'm sure your rider, whenever he comes along, will be excellent. It's a shame no one's claimed you yet, poor thing. Anyone can see that you're a grand, noble beast." Atticus recognized her praise and lifted his head proudly.<br/><br/>"If I could, i'd ride you myself," she admitted. Syrille had daydreams before of riding through Alderion's fields (they didn't have fields like those back in her old home) with the wind in her hair and the sun on her back but they were silly; she had a job to do and there was no time for such indulgences. She was servant, after all. She would never be allowed to borrow one of the castle's horses.<br/><br/>She finished up looking after Atticus and moved on to the next stall where a black and tan pony waited, ignoring the stallion's looks of betrayal.