08-11-2016, 12:17 AM
I was in the darkness; so the darkness I became.
There was nothing ordinary about this birth.
Children created on the battlefield, two bodies coupling under the outburst of magic. The implosion had filled the air and their lungs, leaving them to ride the ecstasy of the resounding explosion. Still riding the high of battles won, they came together once more. Their coupling was not love, no; but a dynasty in the making. A group of children that would carry on the powerful blood from whence they came, spreading their influence far and wide. Beqanna would know them, Topsail was sure of it.
The labor was long. It started well before the sun rose to take the sky, and was still clutching at her stomach late into the evening. There was no rest for the wicked, after all. The sweat pooling along her delicate neck told the tale, as did the flexing of the lean muscles lying against her ribcage. As the labor progressed, so to did the contractions. She called for Eight, a certain urgency to her voice she had never allowed him to hear before. This labor was as untypical as the creation of the children had been, and she wanted the magician near should anything go wrong. At the very least he owed her that much. His moral support was not necessarily what she sought from him, but the security his magic provided should something go horribly wrong. She had heard the children, and knew that there were multiples writhing in her womb; triplets, to be exact. The equine form was scarcely able to birth twins, let alone triplets.
When the pain became more than she could bare, she collapsed to her side. Her eyes rolled in their sockets, her nostrils flared and lined in blood-red as she struggled to expel the children. A groan escaped her mouth as she lay her head in the dirt, longing for the ordeal to be over and put behind her. Finally, a hoof appeared. As she strained, so did the shoulders, followed shortly by the rest of the foal. She turned to clean the foal, acting quickly and noting the foal’s gender; a filly. Before she could do much more, the second foal demanded its exit. Struggling to her feet (and thus breaking the cord to the filly), she staggered forward a few steps before collapsing again. The second birth came somewhat quicker, and before long an identical colt was laying in a heap on the ground. As she had done before, she turned to quickly clean the foal (a colt this time), thus enabling him to breath. Once more (and for the last time), she stood, severing the ties that bound her to the child and preparing herself for the last and final. By this point, she ran on pure adrenaline; her strength was gone, gone far to the wayside. But adrenaline was an amazing thing, and it was on those waves that the last and final foal made its appearance. Calling on reserves, Topsail drew herself up on her side, legs curled beneath her like a resting deer. As she cleaned the last child (again, a colt), she made sure to examine the other two. She was delighted to find they had all been stamped with her likeness; dark, mousey coats, with prominent primitive markings in various places on their tiny bodies. In the exotic curve of their faces she could see their sire, but other than that, they were her exact likeness. (She did not know that Eight’s color change and assured this). A contented sigh left her mouth; tired, body battered, she still admired the foals. “Knoxlyn, I think.” she said, lipping at the fillies scuff of a mane. “And for you…Kilter. Yes, I think that will do.” to the second colt, who bobbed his head in response. “And you, I think, will be Keel.” she murmured to the last colt, who to her surprise was already standing strong and tall on too-long legs. A wonderful looking brood they were; the labor had been worth it. As the children found their bearings (except for Keel, who seemed to be uncommonly strong for his minutes-old age), she watched them, a soft smile curving her pretty lips.
Topsail
Queen of the Valley