07-27-2019, 09:20 AM
The dun mare had given a brief glimpse of her feelings about Taiga compared to Loess to Izora Lethia, mentioning that she misses the lack of sky. And she does; the thick green canopy is beautiful but it is not the open air. The pine-cushioned earth is soft and pungent and the trees themselves are marvels. But it is not Loess.
“I miss Loess.” She says. “There’s not enough sky here, and your grandam reminds me of my Mother.” She makes Lepis feel like a child, the navy-haired mare doesn’t say. Always nearby, always watching, never allowing Lepis the freedom she craves. It is freedom she wants, after all. Not power, like the roan mare thinks, not even respect. The three often come hand-in-hand, but Lepis has had plenty of time to dwell on the difference.
Wolfbane’s tug at her mane is returned with a playful nip to his yellow shoulder, followed by an affectionate kiss to the same spot. She raises her head to rest her jaw against the bristling hair along her husband’s neck. The softly prickling sensation is familiar, and the Comtesse wonders with half-closed eyes if perhaps this child will inherit their father’s mane. It is only then that she realizes what Bane has said, that he knows of the child growing within her already.
The physical changes her mate has undergone had been easy to rationalize; sometimes Beqanna simply happens to a creature and they’ve no control over it. More wings, no wings, a difference in size. Minor shiftings like these are nothing spectacular. She herself had only grow wings after wishing for them especially hard on her six-month birthday. But there are other things too, things that are not visible to the naked eye. Things like her own empathic power, things like the invisibility that her children play with as easily as she’d played with flowers.
“Does she have wings?” Lepis asks, her curiosity over the child in her womb winning out over her interest in Wolfbane’s precise abilities. The dun mare is already sure that the child is a girl. This pregnancy feels like Marni’s had. The child might be healthy, but Lepis is frequently morningsick. “If she does, I think I’d like to name her Celina.” The name is from a childhood story she half-remembers, a tale about a girl who had loved the clouds so much she’d turned into a bird. “Do you like it?”
@[Wolfbane]
“I miss Loess.” She says. “There’s not enough sky here, and your grandam reminds me of my Mother.” She makes Lepis feel like a child, the navy-haired mare doesn’t say. Always nearby, always watching, never allowing Lepis the freedom she craves. It is freedom she wants, after all. Not power, like the roan mare thinks, not even respect. The three often come hand-in-hand, but Lepis has had plenty of time to dwell on the difference.
Wolfbane’s tug at her mane is returned with a playful nip to his yellow shoulder, followed by an affectionate kiss to the same spot. She raises her head to rest her jaw against the bristling hair along her husband’s neck. The softly prickling sensation is familiar, and the Comtesse wonders with half-closed eyes if perhaps this child will inherit their father’s mane. It is only then that she realizes what Bane has said, that he knows of the child growing within her already.
The physical changes her mate has undergone had been easy to rationalize; sometimes Beqanna simply happens to a creature and they’ve no control over it. More wings, no wings, a difference in size. Minor shiftings like these are nothing spectacular. She herself had only grow wings after wishing for them especially hard on her six-month birthday. But there are other things too, things that are not visible to the naked eye. Things like her own empathic power, things like the invisibility that her children play with as easily as she’d played with flowers.
“Does she have wings?” Lepis asks, her curiosity over the child in her womb winning out over her interest in Wolfbane’s precise abilities. The dun mare is already sure that the child is a girl. This pregnancy feels like Marni’s had. The child might be healthy, but Lepis is frequently morningsick. “If she does, I think I’d like to name her Celina.” The name is from a childhood story she half-remembers, a tale about a girl who had loved the clouds so much she’d turned into a bird. “Do you like it?”
@[Wolfbane]
