• Logout
  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "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


    [open]  Only one way in and one way out of this world. [Birthing Post]
    #1
    The first sensation he knew was cold. It wasn’t the cold that woke him from his slumber, something else made his eyes fly open, wide and shocked, something else made him bleat and cough and choke on his first breath, but it was not the first sensation he knew. The headfirst tumble he took to earth, legs limp underneath him, his body crumpled and wet and thudding against the cool ground, this he didn’t notice, too new, too asleep, but the cold crept in. Tendrils of it writhed up his body, clinging to the wet of his fur. His mother did not lick him clean, though she was not far away, standing still and muttering quietly to herself. He could not understand her words.

    After a moment’s breath, he begins to try his legs, his rump rising in the air with a heavy sway. The stance is awkward and strange, it feels as if he has never in his life fully extended each leg - had he ever in his life fully extended each leg? He can’t remember. Definitely at least once. Right now, in this dark meadow, with his shadowy haunches shaking, the glistening curls of his tail flapping limply. His knees bend underneath him, the dark, wet, down that gathers at his elbows fading away to black-skinned, scaled claws. The claws flex weakly, pressing into the earth eight black talons, each covered in the same rubbery, bluish, tissue that gloves his back hooves, protecting his dam while he dreamt inside her.

    He cannot remember what those dreams were.

    The wind gusts unexpectedly and he falls with a guttural exclamation, landing on his hip in a hodge-podge of horse and bird and anger, and in his frustration he bites at the earth, the dark, curved beak cutting easily into the soft soil.

    In the dark, something comes nearer and he knows her. Mother. Her muttering has ceased, but her eye is wild and wary and rolling, a star wide on her forehead, a mark her own mother bore, and one he, too, wears, though the pale rings around his amber eyes suggest that his dark coat will fade to grey in only a few years time, and the bright mark will disappear. In the sky, the stars sing quivering promises of things to come, their light falling on him like snow, but he does not hear them and sets to rising again.

    This time, he stands, clacking his beak in the air with self-satisfaction. His front legs still fold slightly underneath him, giving him an unusual silhouette in the night-meadow. His front end bounces on eagle’s legs as he slowly masters his first steps. Those jaunty steps take him closer to his mother and she shifts her weight, pulling back from her son. She does not know what a mother should look like, except for dead upon the beach with a head dashed open on the rocks as her own had been, but her child came too early. He came in the meadow. He is wrong, and in the wrong place, and she lays her ears flat against his approach, lips drawn back from yellowed teeth in threat.

    He does not heed her warnings. She hates him, and it would be so easy - so easy - to grab his thin neck, one shake would kill him. So easy to strike him down with her wide hooves, to crush him underneath her weight like the brittle stalks of last season’s pokeweed. So easy. She is already bearing down on him, eight-hundred pounds of teeth and hooves and malice to put out the small flame of his life.

    Mother loves me, the colt thinks, seeing his dam fall upon him like a dark tide, and without even a blink, she does. Their bodies crash together and she curls around his chilled body, teeth sheathed once again and her muzzle tracing the line of his back as he moves to nurse. The curve of his beak jabs at her, designed for rending flesh, not suckling, but he has a colt’s needs, and as he find her teat, the beak does its job admirably. His first meal is spiced heavily with blood, but the dark mare does not move or kick or squeal despite the pain and the milk that bubbles pink at the corners of her son’s mouth.

    Her perfect son.


    Dreamscar
    nightmares are the devils in your bloodlines.
    Reply




    Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)