Wound can remember lusting after the perfect, dreamy homes some children got. She would picture the scene in her mind with a soft smile on her face. Although she loves her brothers — for their dedication, for their love, for their protection — they are not the soft embrace or the playful grins of a mother and father. Wound had once watched from the shadows as a pair of twins were chased around a glade by their laughing father. The mother gazed on with amused eyes, eventually joining in to tackle the father in a moment of childish behavior.
Wound remembers feeling their warmth of their love reaching her, even as she peeked from between underbrush.
After that, Wound longed for that very scenario. In her childish years, she wished to be one of the twins — racing gleefully away from her endearing father, knowing that at the end of the day she would be nestled against his strong chest. Eventually, those thoughts matured into wishing to be the mother — with twins of her own born from a deep love for the man who caught and threw them up with his strong arms. Wound was subject to a childhood of hiding in the shadows, of sleeping in a heap among her older brothers, of dreaming for a mother and father who cherished her.
She still doesn’t know who her father is. Although she remembers her mother (a faint, blurry outline of a silver face and a few gruff words called when it was time to eat or sleep or leave), neither of her brothers would mention their sire. Wound often fell asleep dreaming of strong arms wrapping around her and a low, masculine voice singing her to sleep.
The silver bay knows she won’t be sleeping quite so easily tonight. The sun is dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the unfamiliar landscape. Her eyes glance back at the fanged mare as she introduces herself. Femur. It seems to fit the mare’s personality well, from what Wound can tell.
The official introduction sends a half-smile to dance across her lips. Wound won’t deny there are tendrils of sour anxiety crawling through her stomach, making her acutely aware of what she had eaten last. But the more prominent emotion that blossoms in her chest is hope. “Thank you.” The territory seems so vastly impossible to explore, especially in one day. The shadows call to her now, to linger in their darkness and feel the coolness against her skin. Wound shakes her head to rid herself of those thoughts… She won’t spend her days in the shadows any longer.
“It is a beautiful island… Where do you prefer to spend your time?”
@[Femur]
Wound remembers feeling their warmth of their love reaching her, even as she peeked from between underbrush.
After that, Wound longed for that very scenario. In her childish years, she wished to be one of the twins — racing gleefully away from her endearing father, knowing that at the end of the day she would be nestled against his strong chest. Eventually, those thoughts matured into wishing to be the mother — with twins of her own born from a deep love for the man who caught and threw them up with his strong arms. Wound was subject to a childhood of hiding in the shadows, of sleeping in a heap among her older brothers, of dreaming for a mother and father who cherished her.
She still doesn’t know who her father is. Although she remembers her mother (a faint, blurry outline of a silver face and a few gruff words called when it was time to eat or sleep or leave), neither of her brothers would mention their sire. Wound often fell asleep dreaming of strong arms wrapping around her and a low, masculine voice singing her to sleep.
The silver bay knows she won’t be sleeping quite so easily tonight. The sun is dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the unfamiliar landscape. Her eyes glance back at the fanged mare as she introduces herself. Femur. It seems to fit the mare’s personality well, from what Wound can tell.
The official introduction sends a half-smile to dance across her lips. Wound won’t deny there are tendrils of sour anxiety crawling through her stomach, making her acutely aware of what she had eaten last. But the more prominent emotion that blossoms in her chest is hope. “Thank you.” The territory seems so vastly impossible to explore, especially in one day. The shadows call to her now, to linger in their darkness and feel the coolness against her skin. Wound shakes her head to rid herself of those thoughts… She won’t spend her days in the shadows any longer.
“It is a beautiful island… Where do you prefer to spend your time?”
@[Femur]