The calf that wandered, at a wobbly trot, from Tunnel F was not particularly imposing. His black coat and blood red glowing eyes were definitely... a thing, but he weighed only around two hundred pounds.

The fearless belligerence in his gait, then, didn't quite match up. He was small; his instincts just didn't know it, yet. Pugilist jaw and beady gaze wandered Pegasus' peaceful plains--and then the calf veered off, moving (and this, at least, was the instinct of the small) for the cover of the forest, instead.

He slipped into its shadows, taking refuge in its cool dark, and the change of moisture in the air and the call of birds high overhead told him that this place was somehow separate from the fields below. He began a slow, aimless meander up the hills, hooves digging unsteadily into the peat and soft earth beneath, nose and lips working to nibble at any random thing he found.

There was no real thought behind it; he was freshly-hatched, less than an hour old, with no clue what he ought to--or could be--doing.

The black calf jerked, stumbling back with a sharp snort to stare up at the sudden voice.

Red eyes stared, and the tail switched once across his hocks, the hair at its tip tangled. "WHAT YOU?" he demanded at once, and then grunted, annoyed by his own stupid words. "What ARE you," came the immediate correction.

Hooves took a step back, warily, and eyes cut around the dark canopy above. It was a... an imp-thing, white and ghostly and with ghostly eyes and was it-... a spirit? A ghost? Abaddon had no concept of these things, but it was telling him to leave, and he didn't know if it was dangerous.

Still-... "No," he added. He wished it could be a bellow but he was like, three feet tall. "I stay." Firm, with a narrowing of his red eyes, and a spike of his heart rate.

Was this... fear? Whatever it was, his instincts were screaming that it was "fight time," and he was preparing. Black smoke trickled up from his hooves in tendrils, little embers igniting underfoot in the scattered pine needle and leaf litter in the dirt.

"I said NO," the calf sputtered, already toying with the horn-nubs of his head against the trunk of the tree. If he couldn't fight something he'd... he'd rub against the tree! Yeah. Aggressively! A couple light thunks of calf-skull to wood as Puck spoke, and then he answered, peering up with red eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Die? NO. -Bring what here? What I bring here?" And a scowl, a correction--"What... do I bring here?" No! That wasn't right, either! "WHAT WOULD I BRING HERE!" the little calf managed, his voice raised to a loud bleat.

The little elf-sprite-ghost-thing's hair was on end, and shadows gathered to shroud it; Abaddon sprang back a few steps, snorting in surprise. What had that been?!

And then, the smell of fire, alarming to him; and he turned, dancing a quick, fleeing circle around himself, staring down at his own feet.

Where was all this smoke coming from?! Why were his feet hot?! "What you do?! -DID!" he cried, staring up accusingly at Puck, his newest correction making very little sense.

To his credit, Abaddon paused to listen, ears flicking forward, head tilting upward. Granted, his eyes remained baleful, but he listened.

"Dark monster?" he asked, and was about to ask for Puck to elaborate--what did that mean? How would it take his body? He was confused, more than afraid, though with some vague idea that the Dark Monster might prove frightening, once explained. But Puck was then insisting that he hadn't made Abaddon's hooves smoke.

The calf looked down with an annoyed snort, studying his own cloven toes. They stank of fire, and they-

-A chunk of bark hurtled down, bouncing off the calf. He flinched, leaping back, stumbling over his own legs and landing on his haunch. For a moment he just sat dumbly, lifting his head up to stare at Puck.

Then Abaddon let out a loud bleat, scrambling back to his feet to charge at the tree trunk! Skull thunked into wood, and he stumbled, only to bash it again. He was likely to hurt his own head more than the tree, but anger drove him--he had no thoughts of knocking Puck out of the tree, and at only two hundred pounds he'd likely not be doing much bar a little bark-vibration.

But he certainly looked angry, his little hoof-scuffles and angry snorts saying enough.

The calf turned, with another 'bellow' (a bleat), at the gust of air. It didn't take much to distract him, and he thrust himself in a leaping, head-lowered bound for the pocket of wind. He hadn't seen what had done it but had definitely been something and instinct decreed that he strike at somethings (which had dared to exist near him!) with his horns.

He didn't bother to ask Puck anything further--he didn't think of it, his own question already half-forgotten--instead swiping horn-nubbed head at thin air.

Abaddon hit nothing, of course, but it was a very convincing display, and likely good practice for his later years. Then he charged a few paces--and when he still found nothing he snorted, head coming up. The calf turned this way and that, darting a few wobbly paces into the trees, but Puck was now nowhere to be seen.

"BLEEAAAAH!" he cried: a victory bleat.