Wow, being a Mother was hard work. Weir had discovered this the hard way but perhaps the best way one could really see this, was to see for themselves. They were a bit of a handful, the twins, one more so than the other but there were days they both gave him a real run for his money. The red roan stallion did his best to keep them in check but there is no doubt in his mind that they still got away with plenty. Don’t get me wrong, they were good enough kids, decent in most respects. One was a bit sassier than he can hope but when you looked at their Sire, well…

Their other Sire that is. He was sort of a Sire too, well maybe more of the Dam in this case. Warship was undoubtedly a man, had to be, Weir didn’t recall him ever being pregnant. Not while they knew each other at least. Whatever Weir was, little Rowling made sure to refer to him as ‘Mom’. Good thing Weir was so jolly, so joyful and laid back. He didn’t mind, for the most part, he knew who they meant. Truthfully they should probably be taken to see their old man sometime but Weir had put it off, he knew full well Warshyshippy would be cross with him. First he would have to convince him they were even his but one moment spent with Fastlane, their was no denying that girl’s lineage. Not a chance.

Today he was trying to entertain them, causing fat flakes of snow to fall along their backs and tickle their faces. Each white dollop fluttering down from the sky like a piece of fluffy cotton. Winter was on its way out but that was only a minor detail, every day could be winter if Weir wanted. Along with the snowfall he made things, a little sled of snow pulled by a proud looking reindeer. The contraption danced around their hooves, twisting through their legs as it made a trail through the drifts. It was a small replica, barely knee high to Weir but big enough for a pinch of detail. A gleam in the little creatures eye, the delicate twists in the reigns that had no functional purpose.

When Graeme approaches Weir smiles broadly, her velvet muzzle touching the warmth of his cheek in greeting. The chill of the air didn’t bother him anymore, never robbed his flesh of the fire that kept it moving. He did suspect that he ran a bit cooler than they did, or something like that, his internal temperature had to be off a bit for him to feel warm even in the midst of a blizzard. “Jolly afternoon Graeme,” he delighted in saying as she moved to touch her Mother in the same sort of introduction. “Oh, why just there,” he tilts his rusty head, moving aside and motioning to the children playing not too far off.