Insane theater (birthing) - any.

[Aurane]

We have assembled inside
This ancient and insane theater,

The black colt raises his nose up, taking the scent from the flap of his leathery wings and is appreciative for it, pulling it in and then tucking his chin back towards his chest. The red woman watches with ever widening eyes, holding him still before lifting her head and releasing him.
He stumbles a bit in towards her chest, catching himself with splayed, ungainly legs. He snorts, his ears twisting on his slender, strange head. It bobbles as he orients himself, slinking across her warm shoulder and back to her side.
The blue girl peeks after her mother’s thigh, chuffing at the lord curiously.

“Yes,” she mutters, blinking at the boy a few more times before looking back up. “Born that way. No idea why...” Mother must have done something heinous enough to warrant the scrape of the contents from those sockets; she’s unsettled some humourless god, and he left her tattered and bloody. And childless.
She looks back at the blue roan, a little tag-along at her hip and then back to Killdare, rolling her black-brown eyes. “We are not all so lucky.” Irony is lost on her, that complete and plain creature ‒ red and black hair, bones of calcium; the clean lines and curves of her body uninterrupted and unadorned. Self-awareness is not a strength, so she curses her daughter not for the ordinariness of her own womb and material, but on the lacking virility of her father’s penumbral friends.

She tilts her head, examining the scaly wings. “But you,” her dark eyes are shameless, tracing the edges of his scales and the claws at the ends of the bones, light enough for flight. “These are very interesting.” She takes a step, her brood in unison, through the colt always slow to react.

“What did you do it get these?” She looks back at his eyes, squinting curiously, (she sees some great, plated monster, felled behind him, it's back curved to the tops if those grey-green pines. On the stallion's shoulders it’s great reddish wings are now welded, like trophies. Spoils for the victor.) But, though the carcass is curiously absent a second later, the wings remain. She lengthens her neck, her head snaking in the air towards them. “Beautiful.”

oh god. seriously. horrible wait. sorry!