"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
07-06-2015, 04:46 PM (This post was last modified: 07-08-2015, 09:38 AM by Wichita.)
Things had really taken a turn for Wichita, her day had grown increasingly strange. She had been riddled with sleep dreams of flying, the most wonderful dream she ever managed to recall. The rest of the day started pretty normal. She awoke in the early light about the same as always, blinking in the half light as she slowly came to. She heaved her ballooned body towards her favorite watering hole, a small pond, home to dragonflies and frogs. Lillies dotted the waters surface, where she would take a drink. This was also where she would take in her unusual appearance, the stranger that was she staring back at her.
Her pelt was the softest butter yellow, her mane and tail shades of robins egg blue and the lightest lavender. Her eyes were still a lovely shade of chocolate brown, but that seemed to be the only thing that had remained the same. At first glimpse, she jumped, startled. She backed away slowly from the waters age, her heart racing at this strange turn of events. Ever so slowly, she crept back, taking just a peek at her reflection still unconvinced. There was no denying this though, she was indeed the colors of spring, but she did not know how this happened. As far as she could remember, she had not done anything out of the ordinary. She ate in the same patch of clover, she slept in her favorite soft spot among the trees, and now she was at the same watering hole. Everything had been routine. Perhaps she had eaten something bad, perhaps one of the magicians of Beqanna was playing a joke on her. That's when she realized with a small, she knew such a magician, and perhaps he could help her. Jason, I need to find Jason, she thought before she turned to start her search. He would likely be somewhere with Fiasko and their children, so she started towards the spot she had seen them at yesterday. Before her life was thrown for a loop, before all this change had happened.
As luck would have it Wichita was only 10 minutes into her journey. Her little expedition to find her friends, to locate someone that might could help her, when her stomach hurt. No, really hurt. She had at first thought she needed to use the restroom, but after several comings and goings of stomach pains she finally realized what was happening. Contractions, they are coming, oh my.. she bit her cheek as she still stubbornly tried to walk. Each step becoming crippled by agonizing pain, her legs buckling at each step. Pregnancy did not compliment Wichita's small frame. It was a wonder that she could still walk at times, her barrel protruding so awkwardly around her. She struggled as best she could before finally stopping, her pillars shaking with strain. Each new contraction sent her eyes rolling, like she had seen many a time, the same pained look on other mare's faces. Wichita had witnessed several births, but it was quite the difference to be an observer, and to be the one with a small life trying to crawl its way out your hindquarters. As gently as she could, she tried to lower herself gracefully to the ground, and then from there to her side. Though she felt as if she was just throwing her burdened body around, too weak to really hold and support the weight in that manner.
She had not wanted to be alone for this. She wished her mother could be here, other mares from her herd. Someone, anyone to comfort her and tell her she would be all right. Just like back home, she thought between a break in contractions. She squealed, she didn't even try to muffle it, did not try to hold back. She let her cries of pain come, her eyes watering. With a push, a foreleg emerged from her womb, the muzzle of a new babe encased in the slippery placenta. She yelled, she cried."Please, somebody." her breathing ragged and pained, she wasn't sure she could do this. It was much more painful than she had anticipated.
OOC: You don't mind me posting, do you? Poor Wichita <3 Reuen means no harm by the way.
in my field of paper flowers
Blank. Utter and sheer blankets of nothingness blind me, the quaint scent of honeysuckle and mint on the air, it draws me in like some blossoming rose, enticed by the sun and promise of water, but my mind, it does not compute any of it. I had been wandering, my body as still as a corpse, half in the shadows, watching, waiting. I was unsure what, something inside of me was beating, thundering inside of a cage and it slowed, dulled right down to a minimal thud, thud, thud. It is that beating that I hear then, on the air current, it brings scent to me, wisps of sweat, of pain.
Pain.
My shadowy pelt still bore the deep burgundy stains of once dried blood, my silvery tresses still matted with crimson. Blood. Pain. I had felt it, somewhere, deep within my bones, stretching over my muscles with a delightful twinge. Pain, it was something that many could not take, but I, I stood perfectly still, as my wounds attracted spring flies, the deep gashes over my side, my chest, they pulsated with fresh blood, fresh and delightfully sore. My eyes scanned the area, in the shadows, underneath the spires of bark, I saw all. I saw them all scurrying around in their little lives. I had tried to mimic them, my legs limber, loose as they mocked their movements. But then the shadows pulled me back nine, where the safety was sure.
I hear the wails then, cold, it brings the bitter chill to my bones and it is somewhat familiar. Cries of pain, of utmost torture. My black ears lace against my crown, hidden within the creamy locks, knitting together with the matted and congealed blood that tainted me. My head turns, eyes capturing the sight. A mare, her weary movements suffer exhaustion, her eyes wide in both panic, in pain. My heart thuds, mimicking hers. Racing, threatening to explode from our chests. Break apart the tender white ones of ribs. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth. Thirsty. Hungry. The feelings feel foreign, and I don't know what to do, but as the mare falls to her knees before me, her barrel heaving, swollen, I step out of the shadows, instinct, something strange and probing, pulls me from the safety of darkness.
Worn limbs propel me on, each movement mechanical in their action, one step, two step. Muscles arch and ache with every step, before I enter the fallen mare's safety zone. I lower my head, scarred muzzle, still slick with fresh blood from my nostrils, touches the earth. the mare is leaking, leaking life, leaking a soul. My ears twitch, flicker like wavering weeds in the wind, getting lost in the entangle of thorns, knotted mane. Deep within my, my heart thuds to the beat, the sharp crescendo of the pregnant mare. My teeth chew, tongue dampening my dry, course lips.
'Please. Somebody.' my tone is misplaced, strange. my ears flutter at the sound o my own voice. I hear her again, her pleading, her worried eyes. I scan her swollen frame, her bulging eyes, her fearful veins pumping stark against her flesh. Please, somebody.' my head shifts, craning up and my lips part, calling, calling for anyone, anything. My hoof gently paws at the earth, threads of grass and moist dirt caress my hoof as I insist. Watching with steady, oblivious eyes as the new life slips, failing to come out in one easy push. I step closer, my bloodied face lowering to the mare's neck, my course muzzle pressing against her skin -- it feels right, it feels like I feel every inch of her pain, throttling through me like knives, like bullets. I touch her, ever so gently.
'Please, somebody.' I say, again, the tone soft, feather-like, my eyes swelling with the threat of tears, my heart tearing into two. Being this close, feeling this strange, strange emotion, it pulls me under a wave of oblivion and I sink even further and further away. 'Gentle. Gentle.' child-like, naive, my tone soothes, like larks singing to their babes. but the darkness of something unseen settles just behind my eyes, forces daggers deeper into my blank mind. Gentle... Gentle...'
07-08-2015, 12:58 PM (This post was last modified: 07-21-2015, 10:36 AM by Wichita.)
The pain is beyond her words, each call becoming dimmer. Fading like a flame, the wick nearing it's end. So far only a foreleg and the head had begun to emerge from her, her cries leaking into the fresh green spring grass. Not even her favorite shoots of delicate clover could bring her happiness now, her head cradled up against such a patch.
It moments before someone slips from the shadows, emerges from the tree cover and approaches her. To Wichita, it feels like forever. Every passing contraction feels worse than the last, coming quicker and clinging to her tightly. A more traverses the grasses, stopping so very near her, so close but so far away it feels.
Wichita thought that maybe she was dying, if but for a moment. The mare she looked up at was the same smokey hue, her locks fell from her neck in flaxen hues. It was in her pain ridden delerium, that she had confused the face looking back at he, for herself. One that lacked the tell-tale snip that adorned the end of Wichita's maw. Forgetting how very different they looked from each other, at this time.
This new comer, this reflection looks as if she does not know quite what to do. She cries for help, an awkward out of place voice calling into the distance, before melody tilts from her lips. Gentle, gentle notions meant to soothe. Notions that seemed so alien to the mare that whispered them, she realizing if for seconds, that she was someone.
The pale yellow femme breathes heavily, recieving a kind touch. She closes her eyes trying to relax, wanting to relax. "Stay.Please, just stay."She spoke so softly, as though she could not afford to expend such energy. She didnt know who the female was, and she didnt care. So long as she remained like this, comforted her when she had been pulled so deeply into the abyss. She tries again, and again, and again. Straining her upper body as she lifts it, before again rocking and falling to her side. Each noise that flows from her diaphragm, is primal, is before time and long before gods and the earth. Instinct, purpose, the ruckus emerges to sweep away each pang, as she pushes for all that she is. Rewarded by the sudden slippage of everything wet and warm from her hind quarters.
She can feel life, squirm behind her, bouncing against her legs. It tears through with gangling limbs,it's dial shaking, the world so new and different. A shock. Wichita knows that now, before this, everything else in her life had been meaningless. Every other suffering had been trivial, just a passing inconvenience. Her greatest reward had come, blinking into the sunlight, eyes like a copper penny.
There was a coldness in me then, deep and dark and icy cold. There was no wind, not even a gentle breeze lulling by, but the feeling grew from the pit of my stomach, flaring up until the shards of ice seemed to embed every part of me, from each nodule of my spine to the very tip of my mind, where it stayed. Grabbing and grasping with frostbitten hands, suffocating, choking. There was nothing there, just blank space, empty, forgotten. Shadows crease the white of my mind, searching in vain attempts like I have for the past several days. Trying to remember, trying to understand what this leg does, what this nose smells. And right now, it smells honeysuckle and life, pain and new beginnings.
My eyes are hollow as they look upon the mare, noting every sleek curve, her swollen barrel. She reeks of new life, of sweat and pain, of blood and slithers of regret. She’s had a taste of pain, of horror and this, this is now the fruitful offerings. My ears are lax atop my crown, unmoving, the same as my chocolate body. As still as a statue, the only movement the fluttering of my creamy locks in the soft lull of the spring air. I lower my nose, touching her gently, my course velvet lips pressing against her feverish skin, alive with pulse, raging with full veins.
’Stay. Please. Stay.’ my inflection is cool, feather-light and sweet. Strange, everything is strange. The hoarseness in my throat that makes everything sound husky, the weight on my hooves that feels burdensome, heavy. Each muscle taut, tightening even further as I turn my gaze to observe the quiet bundle that reaches legs into the new world. Tottering limbs grace mother earth and the small one’s nose reaches for the sky, there, thereI look upon the mother and the child with a strange feeling, like a bulllet wound to the chest, blossoming blood across me, broadening and broadening with the dull ache of something, anything. And that, that is when I feel something, I feel something for the first time I have entered this paradise prison.
Creamy mane, knotted with streaks of dry crimson, fly across my face as I shift, each stony hoof heavy and burdensome as they crush the sweet clover beneath my feet. I shift, to angle myself more towards the child, the weakened mother still close and in my sights. I breathe in, and it’s like my first breath of life alongside the small bundle. Sweet honeysuckle, rich spring scents of grass and clover and the delicate twang of mint. Life is sweet, life is good. I turn my faraway gaze back to the mare. ’Gentle… Gentle…’ soft muzzle, course velvet, presses the gentlest of touches to the mare. calming, soothing. I can’t bear the pain anymore, the quiver of her muzzle mimicking my own. ’Tioga.’
One word, one simple little word, and her heart is full. She knew she needed to rise, to get up and clean her babe. Perhaps a few more seconds, she thought, still heaving for air.
She took this moment now to really view the form of the other, her chocolate eyes furrowed with worry. This other, she looked quite familiar to the way Wichita once had. Once upon a time she had stomped into the field, cut up, and looking a right mess. Now she saw what once others might have seen. Still the stranger mare whispered kind words, sometimes mimicking her own. Ever so gentle she touched Wichita's yellow pelt, and the little mare could better see the extent of her injuries.
"Are you okay? You look a right mess sugar."
She asks before raising her dial from the patch of clover, her neck snaking around to see her babe. The little filly was looking about, it's tiny head wobbling atop it's thin neck. A coat of pure black, damp from birth. Gaingling stilts grab at the earth, the child attempting to gain her feet, no luck as of yet. The sunshine mare whickers in encouragement, adjusting her own legs as she pushes her carriage from the earth.
A light breeze is welcomed, caressing her damp pelt, cooling her as she circles Tioga. Her candy hued mane plastered against her neck and face, she herself was not looking so hot.
She takes small peeks at the dark form that stands with her, wondering where the other had come from in such a state. A shadow she is. Still as ever as she watches both Wichita and the newborn, perhaps not even very aware of what had happened herself. "That's all righ' if ya don't wanna talk about it. I'm much appreciative for ya staying with me, that was very nice." She speaks between cleaning her foal, eventually helping the child to her feet. A black dot against her pastel pelt, Tioga quickly find the milk she is after. A jerk in response from Wichita, the girls eagerness rather rough. "You can stay here with us if ya like,"she offers, for she would stay here a while recovering her strength.
07-09-2015, 04:36 AM (This post was last modified: 07-09-2015, 04:40 AM by Reuen.)
in my field of paper flowers
The life of the little one throbs; heartbeats small, lively. I watch her, the little ebony form gathering wayward limbs, watching the mother as she gathers shreds of composure. There's something sweet, beautiful about this moment. Special, as though I'm witness to a greatness that occurs as natural as falling rain. Yet as beautiful as a purple sunset. My dull eyes shift, the only movement in my dead still skull. Like some strange stone guardian I stand and watch, hardly imposing with my Crimson stained body, the lacerated skin that throbbed more life than pain.
'A mess.' my voice quivers, lips twisting and tasting the quaint sweet air of the Gates. A flick of an errant ear toward the strangely coloured mare. My nose drops low, resting against the lush clover, tickling my nostrils, my course muzzle. A mess? Was the girl referring to the Crimson that tainted my chocolate form? Or the hollowness I my eyes, as though staring through them into a glass like mirror, where you saw nothing but yourself. 'Reuen.' my voice creaks and crackles like rusted hinges, the title comes to me like a sparrow, quick and fleeting. Ruin. It's all ruin. I say, my whiskers a twitching with disdain at the very fragmented thought. Burning. Blood. Pain. It all falls through my hooves like wreck, like ruin.
And I ran.
I ran like he said. My legs still throbbing, aching with a delicious pain that reminds me there is some form of life in my hollow frame. Her words grab me, a sweetness that is like honeysuckle, the soft twang of mint in her dainty drawl. I extend my muzzle, some strange twist meeting my course lips. A smile. Vacant and a little bit too toothy. 'Reuen, all is Reuen.' a delicate, fragile feather of a voice breaks the silence. I reach out and touch her soft skin again, she's mixtures of the sun, the setting sun tangerine, the delicate pinks of the horizon. 'Very nice.. Very... Nice.' I mimic her, my head tilting mechanically to the right, to the left, cracked lips shifting into another robotic smile. I watch the girl and her child, the ebony wisp of life finding sustenance as natural as breathing. I watch, intrigued, hollow eyes wide, drinking the scene in. Crimson tattered mane falls errant my over my eyes as they continue to stare. 'Stay? Stay here... Stay.' the soothing voice returns, softly, softly, gentle gentle.
'Please.' I mimic the pregnant mares first gone, desperate, wanting, needing. A swollen promise of hope, blooming like the trailing wild flowers that decorated the gates. My side started to ache, the throb pulsing a few new trickles of life blood, running down my chocolate pelt and enticing more flies. 'Please.'
Such a pained expression the other seems to wear. As though she is both here and not here, all at the very same time. The moments pass, filled with side long glances, the buttermilk mare nursing her child in silence. A long held chocolate glare greets the silver black, as she wonders what the next words might be that slip her maw.
She repeats words, though her speech is still few and far between. Mayhaps, she don't even know how to talk that well the possibility presents itself to Wichita's conscious. Though she did not think her unintelligent, the other had been through a rough time, and Wichita didn't know her story. Some might judge Wichita herself, her way with words being long drawls. Words that were not part of most proper speech.
At last the newcomer gives her name. 'Reuen' The pastel nods in understanding and exchanges the name for her own, "My name is Wichita, it's nice to meet ya." She smiles, ivories displayed in an entirely genuine manner. Wichita had an unrelenting trust for other mares, feeling an instilled since of camaraderie, one that her mother had imparted to her long ago. What is perhaps a bit unsettling are the words to follow, 'Reuen, all is Reuen,' she didn't understand what that meant. It sounded foreboding, unwelcome in the grasses, the clover, the new life of spring. She dismissed it for the time, auds flicking as each sporadic statement came. Fragments of a puzzle that needed to be put together, best as one could with pieces still missing.
The red flows in lines down her disturbed carriage, rivers of pain creating a visible map of her injuries. She wants to stay, just here. Wichita tilts her head just so."Yes, all right. You can stay here,"a promise cemented into existence by its mere vocalization. An overwhelming sense of protectiveness, for both her child, and the lost soul. "Come, we'll have a drink in the creek. I can help you rinse off too, we need to clean those wounds or they'll fester."She nudges her foal away from her belly, urging the child in the direction their short walk would be. Her neck turns, lavender and blue locks spilling past her breast. A glance back.
'Wichita.' The name tastes strange in my mouth, slips over my tongue like the twang of mint and course thistles. I taste it, my lips rolling over and over. 'Wichita.' I say, more and more the name burning s familiarity in the soft mares face. I mimic her actions, mechanically my own limbs shift and saunter, stony hooves pressing into the lush clover.
Stay here. Stay here in the paradise of honeysuckle and mint, and trees and running water. The thought loosens a few taut muscles. Deadened eyes liven ever do slight, as if home, we if living somewhere brought s spark of life to them. My wounds were dull, the pain going bone deep and then further still.
I follow, matching strides, to the rushing water. Firstly my nose lowers and I dunk my whole nuzzle in; water cascades into my orifices and I drink without mercy, the cool waters run down my throat, refreshing, cooling. The tiny tivukets of blood trickle from my nostrils, mixing with the clear creek. I drink, thoroughly and without thought until I lift my head and gasp, breath burns me like fire, raging in my gut, my gullet.
I then drop to my knees, body jerking in a strange fashion and I roll; limbs flailing and I end up skipping into the waters and selling headfirst.
The silence is overbearing, the rigid heartbeats like violent echoes. It feels eternal until I trdurfajce, drenched, my chocolate body onyx black and dropping with water. I turn my gaze upon Wichita and Tioga, water dribbling on torrents from my body, the waters surface a film of scarlet.
'Clean. Must. Clean.'
And I fink myself again, head first, then knees buckling,
07-12-2015, 07:33 PM (This post was last modified: 07-21-2015, 10:34 AM by Wichita.)
The trip is short as Wichita had expected, they make the walk within minutes. The little black speck that is Tioga, clings to Wichita's side, never straying more than a few feet. The yellow hued femme finds that the new commer, Reuen, follows with little hesitation. She had yet to figure out what horrors befell the other, but Reuen was compliant. Wichita in truth thought the mares actions child like, innocent, like she needed protecting. Similar to the way she thought Tioga needed protection. Besides, the girl was covered in all sorts of marks, surely she had not done this to herself.
It takes the buttermilk mare by surprise when Reuen, awkwardly flings herself into the water. Going under for far longer than Wichita was comfortable with. She makes to rush for the bank, her foal awkwardly attempting to keep up, words of caution forming in her maw."Wait! Sug don't do th-...."Her disagreement ends when the mares flaxen adorned dial pops back up mid sentence. Wichita snorts in relief, making her way to the waters edge, Tioga close behind."Well, I guess that's one way ta do it."She tilts her sunny crown sideways, before dipping her lips to the waters cool surface."Yes, must clean. That's right." head bobbing in confirmation.
"Reuen,"she asks, a pause ensuing after she speaks the vixens name. "Where did ya come from? Do ya have any family might be lookin for ya?"she wondered if the roughed up mare was alone in the world. Not that it truly mattered, Wichita was simply curious.
She’s been worried about the silver mare all winter. As her own belly has grown, so has Wichita’s - evidence of the horrible event that had befallen the poor mare during the fall.
Fiasko still feels a certain amount of guilt over the incident, though of course it is unfounded. She wishes, more than anything, that she could turn back the clock and set things right - prevent Wichita from ever meeting that iron bastard. But alas she is not so talented. And so, doing her best to comfort the mare and keep an eye on her is the best she can do.
Unfortunately however, the unexpected twins have kept her quite busy over the few days since their birth, and she has lost track of the silver mare.
But, today, finally, she has a moment to herself. Jason is keeping an eye on the twins (well, at least an eye on Sidra - Sahm will likely be no trouble), and so Fiasko is taking the opportunity to track down her friend.
The strong scent of birth is upon the air, and it quickly leads her to the old watering hole. There at the water’s edge stands Wichita and another mare that Fiasko does not recognize. And there, at Wichita’s side, stands a tiny, black, fumbling filly.
Fiasko quickens her pace until she is able to join them, and positively beams at Wichita. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here earlier! Are you alright? She’s beautiful!” She leans her head down to get a better look at the child. Such a sweet little thing. “What’s your name?” Then, remembering the stranger, she looks back up. “Oh I’m sorry, I’m Fiasko. Welcome to the Gates.”
