"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Although she has loved being pregnant (the feeling of her child shifting in her womb is a feeling she will never grow sick of), Wound is ready to have her little one outside her body. The final weeks of pregnancy seem to drag on eternally and the silver bay finds herself leaving Tephra — and in the last week, her designated birthing place — less frequently. It’s difficult to move around, with her heavy limp from her foreleg and the added weight of her child.
She is worried as well. Wound is a frazzled mess of hormones and ‘what ifs’ and anxiety. Tephra has been relatively busy lately, and Warrick along with it, and so she hasn’t found the time to seek him out to announce that he will have another son or daughter. That lends her some degree of discomfort, as shame and guilt burrow themselves deep among the corners of her heart to nestle alongside concern and apprehension. Yet as spring finds its way onto Tephra’s humid island, her nerves steel themselves into a brutal sort of confidence.
The first of her contractions start in the late hours of morning. It is a tight gripping along the sides of her womb, a constriction that aches for a brief moment before fading away. Wound grunts at the sensation, a mouthful of grass muting the sound slightly. However, the cramping does not pick up speed until the early hours of the evening, when the sun’s rays begin to stretch the shadows as it lowers itself to hide beneath the horizon.
She had not known such pain, but it felt natural. Although each contraction felt as though her insides were being shredded apart, Wound felt a connection to the world turning around her that she couldn’t ever begin to explain. The stars less foreign, the grass softer, the waves more soothing. The pain she endured was easy with the comforts of the earth around her, encouraging her on. “You are bringing life to the world,” it whispered to her.
Wound cleans the afterbirth from her child now. Her muscles are twitching with fatigue as the sun begins to rise. In the dawn light, she catches the first colors of her daughter. Bay, but a mahogany color that catches the pale hues of pink and orange and purple from the sunrise. A quiet, startled sigh flutters out of her mouth. Wound wonders if she would ever see anything more beautiful.
It did not surprise him at all - Tangerine’s third eye had never been wrong before, and the moment she hinted at the coming of a daughter, his heart had leapt into his throat. He hadn’t seen Wound recently, and though he is not susceptible to believing that their love-making would not result in a child, he had been fairly certain he would have noticed by now - at least, she would have made it known. But he hadn’t noticed and she hadn’t said anything, so the bay and navy man perhaps played the fool - it had not been written in the stars, the timing was off; his mind rattles off the possibilities. But in that grotto beneath the volcano’s might, the stallion realizes with a sort of quickness in his belly that he must find the silvered woman immediately, to lay to rest her qualms (if any) about his role as father, and to celebrate with her in their coming together to form new life.
He cannot help but feel slightly giddy. Since the twins, he had not found the time to talk to Tangerine about the possibility of more children (she had been through enough, at the moment), and so the Overseer is more than happy to imagine another daughter to adore and preen into a mature woman. It is a process he had loved with both Svedka and Solace and their mother, and the stallions looks forward to sharing with Wound and their unborn.
It seems, however, he has found her a little too late.
Or, maybe, it is right on time.
The scent of sweat and heat infiltrate his nostrils (it is not the same smell that comes with normalcy of Tephra, which rouses him into alarm), and he snorts sharply. It is a familiar scent, though it has been many years since he last found it, and he recognizes it with a quickness of a breath and a break of his trot into a choppy lope, ears swiveling and nostrils quivering as he tries to place the source.
He finds her (them, actually) beneath the silky silver of twilight, a perfect beneath the volcano’s orange glow.
The stallion rushes to meet them, ears alert and eyes searching - he should have been here sooner. Concern sparkles in the depths of his blue eyes, alight with adoration and a certain softness that is only characteristic of a new father. There seems to be nothing wrong, nothing to worry about the two that bask in the dawn before him, and he relaxes. The sun begins to warm his back, bright and bold as it appears over the horizon, illuminating Wound and their daughter in such a brilliant gold color that it leaves him breathless. His feathers flutter beside him, one of his wings outstretching to cover her slightly as he walks to Wound’s back, watching the tiny filly from the other side of her mother.
“Wound...” he murmurs in a delicate whisper, pressing his muzzle to the crook of her ear, pride and warmth in his robust voice. “She is lovelier than the dawn.”
Even in lion form her stomach has the familiar rounding that shows her pregnancy. For a while the lioness had been caged, kept under control by the golden mare as her lover kept a close eye on them both – or three actually, counting their whelp. But the hormones and sometimes lack of supervision and support made Marigold less secure – more nervous – and the lioness had gladly taken over. Everything to protect her precious little whelp.
It’s instinct. She’d fight to keep her whelp safe, and only the best would be good enough. According to the lioness that was. Marigold would very much agree, but would go less far in attempting to accomplish it. Sneaking upon a mother, weak and exhausted after birth, was a perfect example of it. Round ears are perked on top of her head, claws retracted to move around as silently a possible, and her tail lies behind her on the ground.
She’s sneaking closer as the sounds of hooves on the ground sound, an unexpected arrival. Her dark eyes narrow as her lips pull up in annoyance, showing her teeth without really intending too. First her eyes had been set on the mare, tired after birth and her sharp eyes had been quick to notice the weakness of her foreleg. Yet the arrival of the male, fit and a clear obstacle, force her to change her plans. The lioness softly snarls in annoyance, eyes now set on the still grounded child. Maybe she’d be quick enough to snatch and drag the still damp body away and defend her prey if one of the big ones decided to come for the body.
One paw in front of the other, her belly pressed against the ground. Little by little she nears the family, using the tall grasses and other vegetation to hide herself. The wind gentle breeze comes from the opposite direction, carrying the equine scent towards her, and her own scent away from them. All odds are in her favour for success.
A beautiful face is a mute recommendation.
@[Calcifer]
Kuna okayed me stirring the thread up a little~
Beqanna seems to have cartoonish feelings about her resident shifters. Longclaw hasn’t seen another one in quite some time - the true Kin often lose themselves to their second spirit or end up rejecting it totally. It’s a hard line to walk, after all; one soul at war with the other, always feeling torn in two directions … predator and prey rarely ever coincide harmoniously.
That’s not to mention the stark difference between a born shifter and one, like Diorae, who earns their claws later in life.
Claw knows his she-cat is out there, heart and mind warring against each other, and all he can do is hope to be one step ahead. Imagine: nine long years of being yourself, confident in your own skin and personality and then, *BAM*! Just like that you feel overstuffed, like the feeling when dessert comes around after a hearty thanksgiving dinner. You can’t possibly take anymore, but you do, because you’ve been given no other choice.
He knows, too, that Marigold has struggled with a latent sort of power. It comes and goes, in blinding flashes of reality that confuse and sometimes lead her astray; she’s got split-personality disorder something bad. He fears for her safety, for his child’s safety, but most importantly, the safety of other Tephran’s.
Were she to bring horror and danger with her, Marigold’s home here could be swiftly taken away. Warrick (Longclaw knows) would refuse to harbor a threat to his own people.
He does what he can. Keeping tabs on her with his fire bird, tracking her when he must. Sometimes she slips away from the Tephra shores and, on those instances, he lets her go freely. The law of Beqanna didn’t restrict her from what she was due: a lion must hunt to survive. Only here, on the Island with the looming Volcano, does he watch her like a hawk - but even today that keen eye slips.
He has other children, and Femur also grows jovially round. Despite his best efforts they tear his attention away from the slinking cat and when he turns back to seek her out, she’s long gone. With a curse underneath his breath, Longclaw dons his wolf suit and heads out to find her.
A good thing, too. He’s tracked her all night and into the morning, following loops that bend back on themselves in her attempt to dislodge him from her trail. Marigold is clever, but she can hardly make herself lighter - a large animal leaves large signs of their travel. Finally, his nose leads him to a quiet corner of the islands where the spring grass has begun to thicken. His urgency falters; maybe she came here because there weren’t others around?
And then the gentle tenor of conversation grabs his attention - a few hundred yards off, nestled expertly into the camouflage of shadows and green stalks - a mare lies on the ground, the familiar shape of Warrick looming protectively over her. Without thinking, Longclaw turns instinctively towards them, his strides lengthening to part the field as his heart begins to trip over itself. He can’t tear his eyes away (though he knows full and well the moment is a private one) and in that instant, the golden flicker of danger opposite them glints wildly in a glancing ray of morning sunlight.
Marigold was downwind (clever girl) and ready to strike.
hen she had first felt the stirrings in her womb, Wound hadn’t been confused. Their union had been timed to the song Mother Nature sings with each turn of Earth. However, in the time between the synthesis of their child and the hours her contractions began Wound remained as busy as ever. Her legs carried her to the then snowy clearings of the Field several times over the course of her pregnancy and yet never to Warrick. She cannot deny her nerves got the better of her and her doubts constantly forced her into seclusion when she wasn’t searching for recruits.
Anxiety sours her stomach at the sound of footsteps outside the privacy of her birthing place. She begins struggling to her feet, immediately prepared to protect her newborn with her life. The mahogany filly beside her stirs, as if sensing the emotion of fear swirling in the air. When the scent of Warrick rushes into Wound’s nostrils, she calms. The sight of him soothes her for another moment before she remembers she had hidden herself away into the crevices of Beqanna and Tephra itself as her sides grew.
“Warrick, I” — she isn’t quite sure what to say, caught between infinite adoration and rough guilt. “I should have told you, I’m so sorry.” Coffee eyes glance up toward the navy and bay’s handsome face. “I was scared about how you would react and I’ve heard you have other children and I don’t want to barge into your family.” Her voice is shaky, tendrils of nervousness and dismay working through her words.
Just as she’s about to take action (although she isn’t sure what it might be: apologize more, stand up, name their daughter?) a howl careens through the small crevice in Tephra. It sounds familiar to Wound, although she isn’t sure why. But the urgency is more apparent and the silvery mare’s head jerks around, twisting to catch the source.
There — a glint of catlike eyes, barely seen among the tall grasses and bushy vegetation that surrounds them. A sharp dagger of terror strikes through the rosy love Wound had felt only moments before. Beside her parents, the newborn filly lets out a tender cry. The silver woman struggles to her feet as a horrified, “Warrick!” drags from her mouth.
02-10-2018, 09:06 AM (This post was last modified: 02-10-2018, 04:18 PM by Warrick.)
like the sun swallowed up by the earth
Of course, the first words out of her mouth are I’m sorry. He frowns, but not in displeasure, but a minute sadness that for a moment crosses the otherwise jovial expression on his face. He cannot blame her for her need to apologize (for he too, felt the brush of guilt and uncertainty when Tangerine shared her vision of Wound and the child with him, but it had been fleeting and now has disappeared into nothingness, leaving only joy), so the bay stallion reassures her as she explains herself to him by brushing his the cobalt of his muzzle against the sleekness of her neck, stained with exertion from the birth. He huffs softly, his breath warm against her soft silver skin, hoping that she will wordlessly realize that apologies for bringing him a daughter into the world were out of place.
Her voice shakes with her qualms and worries, and the steadiness of his unwavering blue eyes do not leave hers. He listens, all the while inspecting her body with the softest of touches of his mouth, to assure himself nothing had gone wrong during the birth. He brings his face to hers, resting his cheek against her own - an intimate gesture that he would reserve only for those close to his heart - and sighs contentedly, glancing down at the bright auburn of the little filly that curls beneath them, chest rising and falling steadily. “I’m sorry,” he repeats gently, his voice nearly a whisper, “that you spent many moons in worry, when there is nothing to fear.” He pulls from her, eyes large as he takes in her face. “There will never be any reason to fear, Wound. Not while I’m around.” A small smile curls onto the corners of his lips, and he places a heartfelt kiss at the velvet corner of her mouth, sealing his promise.
He lowers his head, wings closing into his sides as he takes a few steps back to investigate the small child at their hooves, running his muzzle across the tiny curve of his daughter’s back. A daughter, he muses to himself, but he is unable to voice his thoughts for the lone howl of a wolf reverberates through the Tephran air, and with a loud snort, the stallion’s head lifts quickly with his ears erect, searching the world around them with roving eyes. It happens quickly - she calls his name just as he realizes that it is Longclaw’s howl that has erupted into the sky, and as the thought brings itself to the forefront of his mind, the glinting eyes of a predator lock with his.
It is fluid and natural how the bay stallion leaps forward over his child and in front of Wound - his sense of flight gone with the threat of a predator so near - lowering his head and flicking his ears against his neck. In the same movement, the grandiose size of his wings become unfurled, blocking both Wound and their daughter from view, as well as creating the illusion that he is much larger than he had previously appeared. Warrick’s eyes roll with adrenaline, going so far as to even take a few steps towards the beast within the shadows, flapping his wings with enough power in hopes to perhaps frighten away whatever lurks.
Tephra is not known for its predators (the forest holds wolves, but a tropical landscape like theirs would not cater to many threats), and he wonders how it is that this is the first time he is coming into contact with a clawed-animal that isn’t a shifter. He does not know if Wound or their child has departed from the scene (oh, he hopes they have), but the bay stallion is too focused on keeping his eyes locked on the predator to dare risk losing focus and allowing it to step any closer to them.
The wolf’s howl is like a shot signalling the start of the race. Her amber eyes only linger on his form for a short second, then her gaze is back on her prey. No way she would allow him to steal her prize. Just as the lioness would not let herself be scared away by a tall standing, winged equine. She snarls her ever silent growl, ears flattening against her head as her claws dig into the ground, searching for a steady stance to launch herself.
Her eyes narrow themselves as she takes in the bay and navy male, lips parting to show her teeth, but she only pushes forward to come out of hiding – though she didn’t go unnoticed anymore at that point already – as her eyes move back to the tired female and child again.
Lions excelled at their launching speed, she would be faster, but she is very much aware that her prey and her protectors have much better endurance. That meant, in order to succeed, she must be fast. The lioness goes straight for Warrick, powerful muscles working as she sets in her death run, teeth bared at him. Not to scare him, but let him think she’s going for him. In that way, he maybe, wouldn’t be ready for her to sharply bend of her path to bolt past him at his left.
She ducks to pass underneath his wing, not caring for the feathers, but also losing sight of his legs. It wouldn’t matter. Her prize was within eyesight again, yet she realises too late that the distance it too large for her to succeed. She might have, if not for the wolf daring to steal her prey, or the stallion trying to defend is family. Mother and child were still weak and tired. But so does her child slow the lioness.
A beautiful face is a mute recommendation.
OOC: Sorry for the late ánd lameness, I totally understand if you all chose to drop this thread because it is kinda old.
@[Kuna] @[Calcifer] @[Radar]
![[Image: sScEgld.png]](http://i.imgur.com/sScEgld.png)
