06-06-2020, 07:29 PM
The stallion's soft 'Oh' is matched by Florian's own, the tension that wrinkles his maroon brow greeted with trepidation and the brindled boy takes a step back as the stallion comes closer, his head turning slightly away, lowering to chest height, as if proximity alone will set off whatever strange sickness it is that makes him lose so much time. That makes him lose his mama. It's not the first time she's wandered away when he was floating in darkness, and not even a dream to wake up with when it is over!
It is the first time that she's just been gone though, the first time she's left no easily-followed trail. The first time someone else has found him. A shiver runs up his spine, his tail wags, nervously.
"I-- I'm fine. I think. I just-- I just-- I..."
I just what? the colt thinks miserably, whimpering softly into the darkening wood, still casting a desperate glance around the wine-red stallion. It dawns on him slowly that she may be truly gone, taken away by teeth, by magic, by her own feet, and he is alone, lost, forgotten. Despair and fright well up in his belly and his chest and his breath quickens, eyes like claret focusing at last on the stiff-legged stallion as tears begin to burn in them and darken the speckled green of his cheek.
"Mama..." Florian steps forward suddenly, without thinking, his voice a strangled whisper under the careless melodies of the birds singing around them - he steps forward, overwhelmed, losing the thin thread of control that holds him in the present. His vision blurs and goes black, eyes rolling back, flashing the bright white sclera as he falls, as he faints and tumbles into a heap at the stallion's feet.
It is not an unconscious colt that lands against those hard hooves, however.
The magic of Beqanna is a strange, thing; tricky and given to mischief and inexplicable mutations, such is the curse of Florian. The colt slips again into that blank place, that Nothingness, and all that remains is a hard-skinned gourd whose color vaguely resembles the boy's own. It does not breathe or think or dream, it does not move except to roll awkwardly as if thrown and then come to a stop at the first obstruction. That the obstruction is his sire's hooves is an accident of dubious fortune.
Nothing, for Florian, happens. Whatever Malkin does is unknown to him until the fit passes and he turns to boy as illogically and inexplicably as he turned to gourd before. He groans softly, dull and slow as the Nothingness fades to simple nothing, and opens bleary eyes again to the world. He is not in a soft nest this time but hard-packed ground and memory nips at him sharply, stirring panic as he tries to rise up on too-long limbs once again, fragile ribcage heaving with fast and shallow breath.
"No-no-no-no!" How much has he lost this time?
@[Malkin]
It is the first time that she's just been gone though, the first time she's left no easily-followed trail. The first time someone else has found him. A shiver runs up his spine, his tail wags, nervously.
"I-- I'm fine. I think. I just-- I just-- I..."
I just what? the colt thinks miserably, whimpering softly into the darkening wood, still casting a desperate glance around the wine-red stallion. It dawns on him slowly that she may be truly gone, taken away by teeth, by magic, by her own feet, and he is alone, lost, forgotten. Despair and fright well up in his belly and his chest and his breath quickens, eyes like claret focusing at last on the stiff-legged stallion as tears begin to burn in them and darken the speckled green of his cheek.
"Mama..." Florian steps forward suddenly, without thinking, his voice a strangled whisper under the careless melodies of the birds singing around them - he steps forward, overwhelmed, losing the thin thread of control that holds him in the present. His vision blurs and goes black, eyes rolling back, flashing the bright white sclera as he falls, as he faints and tumbles into a heap at the stallion's feet.
It is not an unconscious colt that lands against those hard hooves, however.
The magic of Beqanna is a strange, thing; tricky and given to mischief and inexplicable mutations, such is the curse of Florian. The colt slips again into that blank place, that Nothingness, and all that remains is a hard-skinned gourd whose color vaguely resembles the boy's own. It does not breathe or think or dream, it does not move except to roll awkwardly as if thrown and then come to a stop at the first obstruction. That the obstruction is his sire's hooves is an accident of dubious fortune.
Nothing, for Florian, happens. Whatever Malkin does is unknown to him until the fit passes and he turns to boy as illogically and inexplicably as he turned to gourd before. He groans softly, dull and slow as the Nothingness fades to simple nothing, and opens bleary eyes again to the world. He is not in a soft nest this time but hard-packed ground and memory nips at him sharply, stirring panic as he tries to rise up on too-long limbs once again, fragile ribcage heaving with fast and shallow breath.
"No-no-no-no!" How much has he lost this time?
@[Malkin]