11-27-2018, 09:06 PM
Life through death - growth through decay. Like so many have been born into Beqanna, she is no different. She emerges from the womb, covered in blood and amniotic fluid. A living, breathing creation of her mother and father, knowing not the circumstances of what brought her here. She squirms, breaking free of the sac that homed her for many moons now, and (like so many before her) attempts to stand.
'Up.' Instincts tell her, so she rises onto four wobbly legs. Flump! She falls back again, snorting with frustration, wishing her legs would just work. Again, she stands, and she wobbles, and she...flumps! back to the floor. Lavender ears pin back and the determined little filly again rises. She shakes, she wobbles but this time, she stays up. Carefully, she teeters towards her mother. 'Drink.' Instincts tell her...has she always been this hungry?
Mother looks at her, eyes welled with tears. The filly peers up at her, and tilts her head in wonder. Miela. Mother says. A name, for her! May life be sweeter to you than it's been to me. A statement lost on the foal - maybe, in time, she would understand.
Children know nothing of the weight of life's burdens - no, not yet do they know the heartaches, loss, betrayal, and bloodlust that comes from the adult world. She is innocence, in every sense of the word; from the gentle pastel shimmer of her bodice, to the way she looks at each of the horses around her with the twinkling cerulean gaze, unsure of why their words lay so harshly upon her ears. Her mother's wing rests protectively upon her side, and Miela takes this opportunity to drink. Her body rests comfortably upon Sabra's hind leg as she nurses, the words of her elders lost to the wind as she drinks.
@[Castile] @[Ilma] @[Sabra]
'Up.' Instincts tell her, so she rises onto four wobbly legs. Flump! She falls back again, snorting with frustration, wishing her legs would just work. Again, she stands, and she wobbles, and she...flumps! back to the floor. Lavender ears pin back and the determined little filly again rises. She shakes, she wobbles but this time, she stays up. Carefully, she teeters towards her mother. 'Drink.' Instincts tell her...has she always been this hungry?
Mother looks at her, eyes welled with tears. The filly peers up at her, and tilts her head in wonder. Miela. Mother says. A name, for her! May life be sweeter to you than it's been to me. A statement lost on the foal - maybe, in time, she would understand.
Children know nothing of the weight of life's burdens - no, not yet do they know the heartaches, loss, betrayal, and bloodlust that comes from the adult world. She is innocence, in every sense of the word; from the gentle pastel shimmer of her bodice, to the way she looks at each of the horses around her with the twinkling cerulean gaze, unsure of why their words lay so harshly upon her ears. Her mother's wing rests protectively upon her side, and Miela takes this opportunity to drink. Her body rests comfortably upon Sabra's hind leg as she nurses, the words of her elders lost to the wind as she drinks.
@[Castile] @[Ilma] @[Sabra]