01-02-2018, 12:51 AM
Home. It is an interesting word which often brings thoughts of many different things to many different minds. The touch of a lover’s kiss, the sweet smell of a baby’s hair, the embrace of a cozy bed after a long day, the glow of love deep in one’s chest, the sounds of laughter and joy. Home can be a place or an emotion or a thought or a person.
Before Wound left the protection of her brothers, she considered them her home. They had raised her past weanling, kept her safe from the demons that snarl in the night, and they loved — still do love — her. The scents (musky and manly, often with hints of saliva or sweat) and the sounds (warm huffing, slippery speech, soothing whispers) of her siblings’ company bring forth thoughts of home from her childhood.
Now she considers Tephra and its inhabitants her home. The swell of the volcano, the ashen shorelines, Warrick and Femur and Longclaw, the sound of the waves hitting the beach, the scents of lava and large jungle leaves — they are all her thoughts of home now. However the most prominent one has become the flutterings that stir in the depths of her womb. Although Wound has never gone through pregnancy before, she is no stranger to the signs.
The silver bay is exceptionally aware of the humidity of her island home when she wades past the borders. The tide is higher when she crosses and for a few moments she must strike her legs out in a paddle to reach the other shore. The action of swimming causes her direction to twist (damn that malformed, bum leg) away from its previous course but she ends up closer to the field than her original intention.
Wound is dry by the time she reaches the field, though her ankles have icicles and her mane and tail feel stiff from the cold weather. It’s a warmer day for winter nonetheless so the silver bay is thankful for the sun beaming down to evaporate the water from her shoulders. The field is busy again, especially with the gentler temperatures for the day, but Wound’s coffee eyes catch on a roan mare grazing nearby.
Wound approaches carefully and politely, limping along until she reaches a safe distance to come to a halt. Snow crunches under her feet as she reaches the red roan, but despite the chill of winter there is a sunny smile on her lips. She can see an underlying expression of grief hidden beneath the layers of exhaustion written on the mare’s face and sympathy warms her heart.
“My dear, you look exhausted.” Her words are friendly and soothing. Wound is tempted to step forward and touch the other’s shoulder in a movement of comfort, but she resists. “Have you been traveling far?” Beqanna is a large world to explore, but the scents on this mare are unfamiliar and wild.
@[Raewen]
Before Wound left the protection of her brothers, she considered them her home. They had raised her past weanling, kept her safe from the demons that snarl in the night, and they loved — still do love — her. The scents (musky and manly, often with hints of saliva or sweat) and the sounds (warm huffing, slippery speech, soothing whispers) of her siblings’ company bring forth thoughts of home from her childhood.
Now she considers Tephra and its inhabitants her home. The swell of the volcano, the ashen shorelines, Warrick and Femur and Longclaw, the sound of the waves hitting the beach, the scents of lava and large jungle leaves — they are all her thoughts of home now. However the most prominent one has become the flutterings that stir in the depths of her womb. Although Wound has never gone through pregnancy before, she is no stranger to the signs.
The silver bay is exceptionally aware of the humidity of her island home when she wades past the borders. The tide is higher when she crosses and for a few moments she must strike her legs out in a paddle to reach the other shore. The action of swimming causes her direction to twist (damn that malformed, bum leg) away from its previous course but she ends up closer to the field than her original intention.
Wound is dry by the time she reaches the field, though her ankles have icicles and her mane and tail feel stiff from the cold weather. It’s a warmer day for winter nonetheless so the silver bay is thankful for the sun beaming down to evaporate the water from her shoulders. The field is busy again, especially with the gentler temperatures for the day, but Wound’s coffee eyes catch on a roan mare grazing nearby.
Wound approaches carefully and politely, limping along until she reaches a safe distance to come to a halt. Snow crunches under her feet as she reaches the red roan, but despite the chill of winter there is a sunny smile on her lips. She can see an underlying expression of grief hidden beneath the layers of exhaustion written on the mare’s face and sympathy warms her heart.
“My dear, you look exhausted.” Her words are friendly and soothing. Wound is tempted to step forward and touch the other’s shoulder in a movement of comfort, but she resists. “Have you been traveling far?” Beqanna is a large world to explore, but the scents on this mare are unfamiliar and wild.
@[Raewen]