05-28-2018, 09:24 AM
the secret of our world is written in the stars
The smell of birth and life and blood send his mind reeling, anticipation and adrenaline coursing through the stallion’s body. He is on high-alert, a slight quivering in his nostrils as he peers through the shadowed glade to see the muted forms of Ilma and the foal, greatly interested to see her, to check on her, but hesitant. It is not his child, and for once in his life, he is not bold enough to come to her without an invitation. Then, a soft voice trickles through the foliage, and though it is unsure and nearly a whisper, Svedka knows it is for him. He replies with a deep, throaty nicker, stepping through the brambles and bushes with swift placement of his legs, cerulean eyes wide with concern as well as elation.
Even after birth, the white mare is as angelic as always. There is nothing to fear, he wants to tell her, but the serenity of the moment has rendered him speechless. The foal at her side is as dark as thunderclouds, stormy and grey beneath the soft, warm light of springtime and the perfect white of his mother’s wings. Svedka gives the boy and Ilma a wide berth, circling around to her back where he stands over her, head low as his pale pink nostrils flutter wildly against her mane and neck, huffing gently into her skin. Another low and guttural nicker resounds in his chest, nosing at her withers and tenderly smoothing some unkempt feathers back into their rightful place with soft teeth.
Before turning to look at the child, satisfied that Ilma is safe and healthy, his blue eyes flicker into hers, brows rising with questioning. He asks her nothing that he wants to (are you okay?) but instead offers her this revelation that he cannot help allow fall from his lips: “You are so beautiful.” It is the truth, though perhaps out of place and unexpected, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth before the stallion’s head slowly turns to the child - and though there is no likeness about the colt to Ilma besides the damp feathers that cling to the boy’s withers, there is beauty in her son that has come straight from herself.
“Hello, child,” he says to the grullo colt, a slight bob to his head before stretching his neck over Ilma, so that he might press his muzzle into the soft velveteen of the foal’s.
Even after birth, the white mare is as angelic as always. There is nothing to fear, he wants to tell her, but the serenity of the moment has rendered him speechless. The foal at her side is as dark as thunderclouds, stormy and grey beneath the soft, warm light of springtime and the perfect white of his mother’s wings. Svedka gives the boy and Ilma a wide berth, circling around to her back where he stands over her, head low as his pale pink nostrils flutter wildly against her mane and neck, huffing gently into her skin. Another low and guttural nicker resounds in his chest, nosing at her withers and tenderly smoothing some unkempt feathers back into their rightful place with soft teeth.
Before turning to look at the child, satisfied that Ilma is safe and healthy, his blue eyes flicker into hers, brows rising with questioning. He asks her nothing that he wants to (are you okay?) but instead offers her this revelation that he cannot help allow fall from his lips: “You are so beautiful.” It is the truth, though perhaps out of place and unexpected, the tiniest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth before the stallion’s head slowly turns to the child - and though there is no likeness about the colt to Ilma besides the damp feathers that cling to the boy’s withers, there is beauty in her son that has come straight from herself.
“Hello, child,” he says to the grullo colt, a slight bob to his head before stretching his neck over Ilma, so that he might press his muzzle into the soft velveteen of the foal’s.
(be my escape)
Svedka
@[Ilma]
<3