Unbreakable [any]

[Triske]

She trudges onward, not knowing where she is exactly nor how far she'd come from since she'd left her mother. One could argue that Rea had left her, but Triske doesn't see it that way. The mare had called her worthless one too many times. So what if she doesn't have something called 'traits'? Does she need those to live? Is she required to have them to be special or wanted? Was her mother's opinion of her apparently "boring" existence, the only one that matters? Well. There isn't much that the little bay filly, her form petite and quite skinny from her mother's neglect, knows in this world as of yet (she is only about a week or so old), but of one thing she is certain. If her mother hated her so badly, didn't want her so badly, then she doesn't want her either. Hell, she hadn't asked to be conceived. She hadn't asked to be plopped into this strange place. She hadn't asked for any of this. Perhaps, if the little filly had more knowledge and awareness, she would've even told her so. But it doesn't matter anymore. She's alone now, determined to keep moving forward.

Every fiber of her being is protesting.

Her stomach gurgles, feeling as though it's twisting and tying itself into knots. How long since she's eaten? She's lost track. She's tried to pick at the green stuff at her hooves, but failed with no teeth to cut it. It tasted awful anyway, still she tried. She'd found some kind of bittersweet black things on a bush she'd passed, and they seemed okay, but nowhere near enough to sustain her. Oh well, keep going.

Her head feels heavy, her neck tiring from holding it up. Her legs ache and her shoulders and haunches throb from her trek. She is tired, so tired. The sun shines down on her dull, fuzzy coat that does little to hide her ribs poking out, hips jutting lightly. If it weren't for the sun, she'd be cold. Each night seems to feel colder. Doesn't matter, keep going. Where? She doesn't know. But to stop would be to give up. If she lays down, will she be able to stand again? Shouldn't have thought about laying down, now she wants it more. Maybe, just for a little while...

No. Keep going.

Somewhere, someone would see her as worthwhile. She is a fighter, she is strong. She just needs... mother, the hag. She's the one who's worthless. She'll show her. She'll...

The grass is so inviting, the tall blades brushing against her skin, the ground beneath her toes soft. With a quiet whimper, the bay filly clenches her brown eyes shut. If she doesn't see it, it can't beckon her so. Keep going. Not much farther. There has to be light at the end of this tunnel. Just have to-

She stumbles. Over a root, over one of her hooves, it matters not. She simply lacks the energy to catch herself and falls to the earth with a light thud. She lifts her head and opens her eyes, grunting with the effort to get back up, but her body gives out- failing her. Still, she doesn't cry, doesn't scream. Maybe with some sleep, she will manage to get back up. Maybe you are as weak as she said you are. No. She is strong. She is a fighter. She'll show her.

Tremoring, shaking, she makes it to a stand. Wobbly, but standing. She can do this. Someone would find her soon. One step, two. Someone would see her. Right?

[Tyrna]

Tyrna If we don't make it alive, well it's a hell of a good day to die The meadow is relatively quiet today as Tyrna winds her way towards a more secluded spot among the trees. With the recent visit to the Dale and her recent homecoming, the Fallean mare was feeling mentally exhausted. She hadn't had a chance to stop and catch her breath and was attempting to do so when she heard a rustling in the distance. Like watching a train wreck, Tyrna is minding her own business when the filly comes crashing out of the underbrush and falls heavily tripping over some thing in her path. The little girl is too skinny, that much the Tyrna knows, and there is something funny about the way she wheezes as she lies on her side. The girl looks like she has a foot in death's door. Though relatively indifferent to most things, Tyrna can't just stand by as a child suffers. The warrior watches, impressed, as the filly regains her feet. That is when Tyrna makes the final decision to help the girl. She makes her way over to where the gangly body is crumpled in on itself and gives the filly a gentle nudge with her nose. "Where are you from girl? You won't last much longer like this. Do I take you home or will you come with me? I can help you." She lets the filly lean heavily against her side as the girl tries to find her feet. Silver dapple sabino|Mare|Andalusian Hybrid|Falls Find Reply Triske Nomad Age: 29 Gender: Filly Height: max out at ~15hh Breed: Hybrid (stocky arab mutt) Color: Bay Player: AbbyNormal Markings: crooked interrupted stripe, 3 socks Companion: Genetic Traits: Non-Genetic Traits: Defects: #3 04-23-2015, 11:26 PM "You are weak. Nothing. How did I end up with a child without even so much as its parents' immortality? Worthless." These were bits and pieces of her memory of her mother. Rather than words of affection. Rather than guidance. Of course, having not known what should have been, she only knew what was. And even at only a week or so old, she knew there had to be better out there. Better than that. She was going to be strong, not weak. No, she is strong. She thinks she's proved that by making it this far without her. Maybe, but all she needs is a chance. She needs to eat. She needs her mother's milk, as much as she wishes against it. Triske just knows there has to be someone out there that would see the strong little fighter. The fire that refuses to be extinguished. It is just a tiny flame, currently dim from lack of kindling, but with just a little fuel she could be great. Her fire could know no bounds, flames rising to the sky, smoke reaching its silky fingers to touch the stars. Limitless. All she needs to do is keep moving. Another step, two more. Keep her head up. It's so heavy. Everything hurts. Breathing hurts too, but she will not lay down. Will not give up. She wants to cry, but does not. Would not, even if she had the energy. Her mother said crying was weakness, and she would not prove the mare right. She'll show her. And then it happens. Someone has seen her, just as she's hoped. Brown eyes, too big in her scrawny face peer up at the stranger from under black lashes. She tries to lift her head to look at her face, into her eyes to gauge her expression, but it's so hard. With some effort- and a subtle flinch- she does it anyway. The dappled mare gives the filly a gentle nudge and in return, she clacks her gums instinctively, almost unintentional. As soon as she realizes, she stops. She knows she already appears weak, and certainly doesn't wish to further that.  Small, fuzzy brown ears flick forward as the mare speaks, her overall stance welcoming. Triske is ever-grateful and staggers in her relief of being found by someone nice, leaning against one of the mare's strong legs to steady herself. She hasn't much energy to speak, however, so she forces the words out in broken sentences. "No.. home.. Help.. yes. Go with you." Her voice is so small, but there are undercurrents of hope. Of strength. On the outside, her body struggles while inside, her inner light beams and glows deep in her soft, brown eyes. She hopes this mare, so pretty and strong, can see that in her. She hopes that she will not be let down. And that she won't, in turn, be a let down. Not again. A touch of shame hoods her -too young- features. "Hungry. Hurts." Please don't call me weak, I just need a chance. The words go unspoken, but the thought shows clearly in her eyes. Find Reply

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[Triske]

"You are weak. Nothing. How did I end up with a child without even so much as its parents' immortality? Worthless."

These were bits and pieces of her memory of her mother. Rather than words of affection. Rather than guidance. Of course, having not known what should have been, she only knew what was. And even at only a week or so old, she knew there had to be better out there. Better than that. She was going to be strong, not weak. No, she is strong. She thinks she's proved that by making it this far without her. Maybe, but all she needs is a chance. She needs to eat. She needs her mother's milk, as much as she wishes against it. Triske just knows there has to be someone out there that would see the strong little fighter. The fire that refuses to be extinguished. It is just a tiny flame, currently dim from lack of kindling, but with just a little fuel she could be great. Her fire could know no bounds, flames rising to the sky, smoke reaching its silky fingers to touch the stars. Limitless.

All she needs to do is keep moving. Another step, two more. Keep her head up. It's so heavy. Everything hurts. Breathing hurts too, but she will not lay down. Will not give up. She wants to cry, but does not. Would not, even if she had the energy. Her mother said crying was weakness, and she would not prove the mare right. She'll show her.

And then it happens.

Someone has seen her, just as she's hoped. Brown eyes, too big in her scrawny face peer up at the stranger from under black lashes. She tries to lift her head to look at her face, into her eyes to gauge her expression, but it's so hard. With some effort- and a subtle flinch- she does it anyway. The dappled mare gives the filly a gentle nudge and in return, she clacks her gums instinctively, almost unintentional. As soon as she realizes, she stops. She knows she already appears weak, and certainly doesn't wish to further that. 

Small, fuzzy brown ears flick forward as the mare speaks, her overall stance welcoming. Triske is ever-grateful and staggers in her relief of being found by someone nice, leaning against one of the mare's strong legs to steady herself. She hasn't much energy to speak, however, so she forces the words out in broken sentences. "No.. home.. Help.. yes. Go with you." Her voice is so small, but there are undercurrents of hope. Of strength. On the outside, her body struggles while inside, her inner light beams and glows deep in her soft, brown eyes. She hopes this mare, so pretty and strong, can see that in her. She hopes that she will not be let down. And that she won't, in turn, be a let down. Not again. A touch of shame hoods her -too young- features. "Hungry. Hurts." Please don't call me weak, I just need a chance. The words go unspoken, but the thought shows clearly in her eyes.