09-06-2015, 06:37 PM
This one is going to be stubborn, Porrim thinks.
By the time she finally wakes to the familiar dull ache of a few years prior, the season is in its late stages – nearly final stages, even – and Porrim feels as huge and bloated as the rainclouds that have been threatening the meadow as of late. Though summer has not yet arrived, the weather already promises a humid summer, and today the rainclouds have begun to pile into thunderheads, and the air is fairly crackling with electricity.
So, naturally, the foal that has taken so ungodly long to wait things out has chosen this specific day to arrive.
The yellow mare spends most of her morning trudging restlessly over the gentler slopes of the Meadow – trudging only because she feels as though she cannot manage anything more than a slow jog at this point. She hasn't flown in weeks, and her wings ache for a better workout than a few stretches here and there. In the afternoon, when the thunder begins to mutter in the distance, Porrim waddles her way back down, closer to the treeline, shifting uncomfortably. “You seem to have a knack for poor timing,” she murmurs, glancing back at her swollen barrel. “I hope that doesn't stick.” Her only response is a slightly sharper throb from her midriff, and with a sigh, Porrim falls to grazing – halfheartedly, but at least she tries – and, hopefully, waiting out the storm.
She is lucky only in that the worst of it passes in the afternoon. The grey skies are just beginning to dim by the time the contractions finally urge her, rain-drenched and tired, into the trees... and still the wait continues. Uisce had been ridiculously easy in almost all things, including foaling – a short half-hour and she'd been greeting her new son. This time, things are taking twice as long – late to the bitter end, apparently – and Porrim has concluded that she's either in hell, or the foal is stuck (a terrifying thought) and she is, at the very least, on her way there.
Another contraction. Porrim swears and paws ferociously at the wet ground, and at last, there is a distinct shift- a few moments more and at last, she can breathe, nickering wearily to the small dark shape stirring on the ground behind her. She is ridiculously sore, but rights herself to get a better look at the newborn anyway – and then is downright offended to discover that, if anything, this one is even smaller than her firstborn. What. The yellow mare whuffs and heaves herself to her feet, turning to closer inspect the – aaaah, that's what happened. The foal (a filly! Porrim is excited) stretches almost languidly, spreading filmy wings. What a wingspan, damn. No wonder she's sore. Porrim suddenly feels very sorry for her own mother. “Look at you,” she croons as she sets about cleaning the foal up. “You took after me.” She's a more natural dun than her mother, true, but the resemblance is there – right down to the orange socks and the broad star on her forehead (though Porrim's doesn't quite glow like that – at least not naturally).
The filly finds her feet relatively quickly, and Porrim is impressed, if not a little worried as she recalls how long it had taken her son to master it. Regardless, she supposes, she'll be tracking him down sooner or later to introduce his sister to him, anyway. “Zojja,” she muses aloud, nuzzling at the filly's withers once she's tucked herself against Porrim's side for a drink. “Took you long enough to get here, eh?” The sound of nearby hooves startles her, and the yellow mare falls silent for a moment, draping a protective wing over the filly at her side (Zojja immediately stops nursing, smacking her lips irritably). When nobody appears, she shifts her weight restlessly, whickering a cautious greeting. She doesn't particularly relish the thought of having to shift right now, sore as she is – never mind the stumbling foal at her side – but if she has to... “Hello?”
By the time she finally wakes to the familiar dull ache of a few years prior, the season is in its late stages – nearly final stages, even – and Porrim feels as huge and bloated as the rainclouds that have been threatening the meadow as of late. Though summer has not yet arrived, the weather already promises a humid summer, and today the rainclouds have begun to pile into thunderheads, and the air is fairly crackling with electricity.
So, naturally, the foal that has taken so ungodly long to wait things out has chosen this specific day to arrive.
The yellow mare spends most of her morning trudging restlessly over the gentler slopes of the Meadow – trudging only because she feels as though she cannot manage anything more than a slow jog at this point. She hasn't flown in weeks, and her wings ache for a better workout than a few stretches here and there. In the afternoon, when the thunder begins to mutter in the distance, Porrim waddles her way back down, closer to the treeline, shifting uncomfortably. “You seem to have a knack for poor timing,” she murmurs, glancing back at her swollen barrel. “I hope that doesn't stick.” Her only response is a slightly sharper throb from her midriff, and with a sigh, Porrim falls to grazing – halfheartedly, but at least she tries – and, hopefully, waiting out the storm.
She is lucky only in that the worst of it passes in the afternoon. The grey skies are just beginning to dim by the time the contractions finally urge her, rain-drenched and tired, into the trees... and still the wait continues. Uisce had been ridiculously easy in almost all things, including foaling – a short half-hour and she'd been greeting her new son. This time, things are taking twice as long – late to the bitter end, apparently – and Porrim has concluded that she's either in hell, or the foal is stuck (a terrifying thought) and she is, at the very least, on her way there.
Another contraction. Porrim swears and paws ferociously at the wet ground, and at last, there is a distinct shift- a few moments more and at last, she can breathe, nickering wearily to the small dark shape stirring on the ground behind her. She is ridiculously sore, but rights herself to get a better look at the newborn anyway – and then is downright offended to discover that, if anything, this one is even smaller than her firstborn. What. The yellow mare whuffs and heaves herself to her feet, turning to closer inspect the – aaaah, that's what happened. The foal (a filly! Porrim is excited) stretches almost languidly, spreading filmy wings. What a wingspan, damn. No wonder she's sore. Porrim suddenly feels very sorry for her own mother. “Look at you,” she croons as she sets about cleaning the foal up. “You took after me.” She's a more natural dun than her mother, true, but the resemblance is there – right down to the orange socks and the broad star on her forehead (though Porrim's doesn't quite glow like that – at least not naturally).
The filly finds her feet relatively quickly, and Porrim is impressed, if not a little worried as she recalls how long it had taken her son to master it. Regardless, she supposes, she'll be tracking him down sooner or later to introduce his sister to him, anyway. “Zojja,” she muses aloud, nuzzling at the filly's withers once she's tucked herself against Porrim's side for a drink. “Took you long enough to get here, eh?” The sound of nearby hooves startles her, and the yellow mare falls silent for a moment, draping a protective wing over the filly at her side (Zojja immediately stops nursing, smacking her lips irritably). When nobody appears, she shifts her weight restlessly, whickering a cautious greeting. She doesn't particularly relish the thought of having to shift right now, sore as she is – never mind the stumbling foal at her side – but if she has to... “Hello?”