11-16-2017, 08:08 PM
I love the way you rake my skin, I feel the hate you place inside.
Femur is on the prowl.She felt trapped in her own skin, left too big for it after her mate had climbed off her back and she had come back down from amongst the galaxies and euphoria of their coupling. Because of it, she had scoured the dark shore for hours until fording the sea with a grim set of her head held up above the waves that threatened to beat her back towards Tephra. She refused to let the sea overtake her and she pushed onward with swift strokes of her legs until she gained the other shore and the trail that took her into the Meadow.
The little mare shook the seawater from her fur as best as she could and felt the balm of a land freed from the grip of ice and cold first touch her. It was more bearable here, not quite as humid as Tephra could get but she could almost taste the green of new growth on her tongue. It seemed far more palpable here now that winter loosened her chokehold on the land and Femur almost smiled. Almost, because there was no smile to see as she drew her cloak of invisibility about her and went amongst them unseen. All that could foretell of her coming or going, was tracks in the mud on the trail and the shallow indentations of her passage are filled up fast with the wintry runoff of snowmelt.
Femur looks at little, sniffs the air every now and then, and then deviates from the known trail. She picks her way through the bushes, sampling a berry here and there. The juices stain her fanged mouth, rendering it visible though the rest of her is a sight unseen. Popping the plump little berries between her teeth reminds her of her mate, and she can think of better things she’d rather be doing now than inhaling berry after berry until her stomach hurts. Too much sweetness and Femur is not by any stretch of the imagination, a sweet mare. She is tricksy and sly as the fanged grin on her now visible face suggests as she pokes it out of a bush, the branches of which scratch at her neck in twiggy little claws that seek to draw blood.
Still, all she can think of is him as she discovers that she is looking down on a foal - a filly, by the looks and the smell of it - that is all on her own. That’s odd, she thinks as the grin falls from her face. Femur is not the motherly kind either - she’s barely a mare that has just left the knock-kneed gangliness behind for lusher curves that accentuate her slim thin shape. She cocks her head to the side, that part of her is still visible enough as she sniffs the air. Sure enough, there is the scent of afterbirth and baby but the scent of the mother has fast begun to fade. It is a good assumption that the foal is now an orphan and Femur can feel her heart crack open just a smidgen.
Her bloodline cannot stomach leaving babies behind and apparently Femur is cut from that same feral cloth. Some instinct rises in her and makes her completely visible as she breaks from the bush that housed her with little more than a flinch and a few pale hairs of her tail left behind. “Hello, little one.” she calls with a soft murmur as she sidles to the foal’s side, mindful of the wings that flap much like the fuzzy ears atop the babe’s head do - loose and unlearned. One wing is the rich black of a night lacking any star, the feathers thick in their glossy newness. The other is hard and gleaming, has the look of bone and is confirmed to be no more than a skeletal assemblage of what the other would look like if stripped of feathers and membrane.
Of its own accord, her nose has drifted down to touch the top of the babe’s head in a comforting gesture as she coos wordlessly at it.
Femur