"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
06-03-2016, 11:15 AM (This post was last modified: 06-12-2016, 04:53 PM by Weir.)
WEIR
Something had gone wrong, terribly wrong he would say- terribly and wonderfully wrong. Weir hadn’t meant for anything awful to happen, in fact, he wasn’t sure just how awful it all was in the end. The roan male wanted to help, he wanted to find his friend, he wanted to see if the rumor was true. That gathering, their journey was supposed to be a rescue mission, a search and rescue mission to exact. Search for whom? Warship of course. It seems he was not so dead as one might think, not so deceased as he himself had been led to believe after the nightmare of the War had ended. In fact Warship was alive, very much alive and both Kimber and Prague had assured him of this.
Was it his fault they had found him? Was it his fault that the magic mistress had her own agenda? Certainly not I say, most certainly not.
Of course he couldn’t just stand by as she meddled, couldn’t let the Amazon do her bidding because it would have meant the end of his dearest friend. It would have meant death and this time that death would have been certain. Weir simply could not sit and watch, could not allow this to happen, Weir meddled and in turn he was meddled with.
He meant to divert the Magic, he hoped to turn it in on itself, to change that death sentence to one of life and in a way he did. For months he did not realize exactly what this meant, for a time he only thought he had made himself terribly ill in consequence but as he grew (or rather, his stomach grew) he knew better. In attempt to spare life had created it, in a way he had played God and in return he now held life within him- much like a woman would. Well, exactly like a woman would. In his haste and hurry Weir had made himself pregnant with that Magic, Weir was going to be a ‘Mother’.
Go ahead, laugh, it is quite the humorous ordeal he knows. Still even in its hilarity he can not help but think what a grand adventure in science this is. He would be a Mother, isn’t that something?
What isn’t really something, is the sickness that overtakes him with this so called Motherhood. The aches and pains that accompany the stretching of his insides, the burden of his weight. Lately he finds that he can’t do much more than waddle to and fro across the Dale, belly swaying awkwardly side to side with each step. At times it’s hard to breathe and mostly he just wants to sleep, which is what he decides to do now. A gentle spring afternoon is just the kind of day that calls for nap, ask anyone.
He doesn’t know that it snows now as he dozes, doesn’t know that he causes the air to chill and the sky to fall without asking it to. Weir also doesn’t know that the accumulation of moisture not only brings fresh, white powder, it also brings with it two young foals that shake free of the impromptu winter….
WINTER IS COMING
@[broken] feel free to post fastlane to this or not. I haven't yet decided myself if I'm posting Rowling here, just wanted something up saying they were alive. Yay.
just a lil something from Rowling to get him started off >>>
Rowling
Isn’t that odd? he thinks, feeling the snow drift over him, encasing him into the ground. Of course Rowling does not yet realize this is the ground, just a very hard spot, one which does not give, not like the place before. Even still, when he thinks of the before place it didn’t have much give either, not in the end. There was only so much room for two in the before place and now he isn’t sure there is room for the other at all, actually where is the other? It’s not the cold or the snow that chills him and truly he is not chilled in the physical sense but emotionally he feels just that. He worries when he starts to process that maybe the other is gone, or maybe he is gone or perhaps both. A bleating noise issues from his small mouth, the sound lost to deaf ears that sit swiveling atop his tiny head.
Where is the other he wants to know, where am I? Because for now Rowling does not know if the other is a brother or a sister, he just knows that he is not supposed to be alone, he knows that before there were two.
As he cries he wiggles, shifting beneath the fine powder until he frees a foreleg. Just the one, a single solitary leg poking from beneath the blanket of white. It is then that Rowling knows that this place is not so cramped as he had thought and with a few more wiggles his bluish head bursts forth from the snowdrift, small bleats filling the air around him. Well, well, this is different. Two amber eyes search the scene, an otherwise green meadow, a second lump of snow and a fat mare snoozing in the midst of the flurries. Or wait, not a mare at all, but the distinct smell the man carries is all too familiar. Rowling’s brain says “Momma”, his eyes tell him otherwise as he watches the rust colored stallion snore on that sunny spring day, asleep to the world and the child before him. Not for long he hopes and with that the little blue roan colt plays for Weir the song of his people. The chorus of his cries echoing in the emptiness and not once does it bother the boy- not once does he hear.
the mind is not a book to be opened at will and examined at leisure
Because of all the time that he spent in the kingdom and in his herd he had not yet heard of the drama that had occurred since the war. Then winter had hit and he had need to spend time hiding from the snow in the Golden Plains. Then of course it was birthing season, and while he did try to be there for his mares, on occasion he still made an attempt to escape all the female attention. His personal feelings on the matter were of little consequence, due to the fact that first he wasn’t the one toting a baby around. Second because he was the one that had caused it, they seemed to believe that they were due for double his normal attentions. Kingdom matters, and the excessive trips that he made all seemed to be of no importance to the females when their hormones were raging.
Sheba had been left behind in the Plains to offer the mares comfort for the time being. With the cloying sunshine and the full greenery, the kingdom was to tantalizing to deny. Stopping every so often to look at the world around himself the black stallion travels about the Dale exploring old and new areas. A creek gurgling nearby, he turns his head in the opposite direction when he feels a chill in the air that isn’t usual for a warm spring day. One tentative step then another, the thick chocolate of his eyes travels over the expanse of the forest.
Phaedrus decides to follow the chill, as it gets colder and colder he can’t help but smile. It had to be Weir it was the only explanation. Breaking through to a small clearing he notes that the man appears to be taking a nap, but what startles him more is the foal that pulls itself from the snow and then begins a chorus of noises that to one who has never heard them sounds ungodly at best. Curiosity gets the best of him and he steps forward nickering to the foal, but it pays him no attention. Humph well that was odd to say the least. Now as the foal continues to pester the other stallion Phaedrus isn’t sure what to do, he is certain that if Weir was taking a nap then a lost foal was not exactly the first thing on his mind.
For a minute he considers herding the foal away so that it would not disturb the stallion, but when he approaches and Weirs scent surrounds the colt Phaedrus takes a step back with a chuckle. He had never known the other to be a family man. Well this would be entertaining, he waits watching in curiosity wondering if the Weir would be upset with the little one.
She’d noticed the pregnancy pretty quickly. It is after all, a rather noticeable thing when your male lover’s belly starts swelling with child. But, despite her initial shock (and a little explaining from Weir), she’d taken their new situation in stride.
That said, she’s still a little nervous about the whole situation. Weir, well, doesn’t exactly have the right parts for pregnancy and birth, and she can’t help but be nervous about that little fact. Without the right parts … it seems to her that something could easily go wrong. So when she notices that she hasn’t seen Weir in a few hours, she immediately starts to worry.
She rushes about the Dale madly for a few minutes, desperately to find any sign of her love. And finally, when she’s about to truly panic, she catches the scent. Weir!
She follows the trail as quickly as she can, and after a few minutes … there he is. Or at least, there’s a massive pile of snow in an otherwise green meadow. Which can only mean Weir.
She steps forward, and manages to catch sight of the stallion’s outline under the snow. He’s alive and clearly at least somewhat well - the snow wouldn’t be present otherwise. And then her eyes fall upon a little roan colt poking out of the snow. “Oh!” She takes a step towards the colt, before finally noticing that she’s been beaten there by someone else - Phaedrus.
She pauses, bobbing her head shyly to the blue and black stallion. “Hello Phaedrus.” She doesn’t know him well, in fact she barely knows him at all, beyond seeing him at meetings and discussing the possibility of his training Graeme with Weir. But she can’t let her shyness get the better of her now - Weir and the foal might need her.
Gathering her power, she brushes the snow off of Weir and the child - normally it would be difficult for her as Weir’s power is stronger, but in his unconscious state it’s easy. And then she’s in for a surprise.
There’s a second foal, a little black filly. It must have been hidden under the snow.
Twins?!
She rushes forward, checking the girl. Despite her time spent under the snow, she seems healthy and warm. Satisfied that the girl is alright, Eira finally turns her attention to Weir, who now that she’s close, appears to be sleeping. She snorts, and nudges at him with her muzzle. She understands why he’s tired, but now is not the time to be sleeping. “Wake up sleepy head. There are some little ones here that need you.”
Sleep, of course he was good at sleep wasn’t he? As Weir dozed the world around him went on, and the roan man was none the wiser. Isn’t that funny and a bit odd how that works? Beqanna’s potentially most intelligent creature oblivious to the world like that? It’s true, it happens and today it did just that.
As he slept, the world continued, as the world will always do, and from that continuity sprang life just as once he had summoned it into himself without knowing. That’s the link, the similarity and as he snored snow fell precariously from the sky in late spring. Each tiny flake fluttered to the earth, lining the green meadow with a blanket cover of pure and pristine alabaster. Eventually, beneath the fine powder, new life emerged and that new life was life which Weir had unknowingly brought to the world. One boy and one girl. The boy had managed quite well to shake himself free of the drifts, squealing loudly at the world as if the entire situation was indignant of him, and maybe it was. Sadly enough he didn’t hear his own cries, nor would he ever but nothings perfect and even deafness is no imperfection by most rates.
Weir sleeps as the child cries but we can imagine that he is coming to by now, slow as ever. The presence of Phaedrus is, for the time, unnoticed in his sleep, as well as the approach of his dearest love Eira. It is lucky that she arrives when she does, clearing the snow and revealing beneath a particular heap a dark colored girl, still snoozing herself it seems.
Only when she beckons him, Eira that is, does he stir, groaning as he does so. Each limb stretching, twisting perhaps a little as he opens his amber eyes to the bright sun. A few times he blinks, looking at nothing in particular as the regains focus in his sight and the last bits of sleep brush themselves away on his lashes. Now you can imagine what an odd thing this is to wake up to, a gathering of sorts and no prior knowledge of such an occasion. “Eira?” he asks sleepily, a yawn pulling his lips apart until his mouth is wide. “Phaedrus?” he wonders, looking up at the blue and black male and wondering why everyone is staring and why they are all gawking at him so.
It is then that the dulcet tones of the first child reach his ears, shrill as they are it is a wonder he hasn’t registered them until now. In his grogginess Weir asks, “Newton?” before turning his rusty head and seeing that it is not Newton at all. Not only is it not Newton but there is another unknown child laying beside him, and they are all covered in snow. Weir thinks on this a moment, looking at the two new children and back to the two horses standing before him. Back and forth, back and forth and then only then, does he turn his head and neck to look at his deflated stomach. At this his eyes grow wide, turning to look back at Eira and Phaedrus before speaking. “How on Earth?” he gulps, as if they could even begin to know or explain this conundrum.
WINTER IS COMING
Go ahead and respond as i wont post again from Rowling just yet.
