| T he days have blurred together. After the visit from the once-king, the concept of time was swept away under a long-forgotten rug and Wound’s hope went with it. Early fall melted into winter which bled into spring. Her sides continued to swell beneath the weight of Modicum Mortem’s seed. Her pregnancy with Wishbone had been a joyful one, albeit stressful under the endless thoughts over Warrick’s reaction, yet this one is entirely different. The gray of her soul (normally full of color and sound) allows only enough delight for Wound to become immensely protective of her stomach amid the visits of the Sylvans.
These outbursts of independent ferocity are the only signs of energy from the petite silver mare.
She dreams of Tephra frequently. They are hazy, fear-induced dreams that often turn nightmarish in the end. Warrick’s auburn face cloaked in the glow of the volcano suddenly twists into the shape of a wave of water coming to fill her lungs and drown her heart. The soft lull of the beach waves dancing across her heels washes into the snarl of a wolf’s throat about to shred teeth into her womb. Although Wound sleeps fitfully, her moments of wakefulness are spent in eerie, symbolic silence.
She is broken.
Her shoulder leans against the bitter wall of the cavern one spring afternoon. The light that filters slowly into her prison is welcoming and warm, but no ray of sun reaches the far corner she has been confined to. Dust motes dance in the glow of sunshine, happy and content to float weightlessly. A ragged sigh slips from Wound’s throat as she shifts her position with the movement of an uncomfortable kick to her ribs. The sound echos in the silence of the cavern, although the walls of her jail-cell have frequently heard her screams of pain and terror on other days.
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credit to nat of adoxography.
for fun purposes and because time is man-made, wound is still pregnant in this thread. i haven't done much torturing in the time she's been in sylva, so anyone's (or multiple anyones) welcome to approach her and screw with her physically/mentally. just not anything that would endanger the baby, unless you want a fierce momma wound <3
07-21-2018, 09:21 AM
(This post was last modified: 07-21-2018, 09:21 AM by Rajanish.)
A yearling now, Rajanish trots through Sylva with perhaps more confidence - he knows the place, knows his friends although he has no immediate lust for blood like they - he doesn’t mind it though. He admits that the hunt, as Kreep calls it, is worth the thrill that such a chase gives. And hunts end with a kill, or a capture, at which point Raj is among the first to see. What caused the death, or, what does the sheer idea of capture do to their mind.
With the ash-smelling mare it had been different. Maugrim had brought her in, together with the wolf. This meant he had no right to approach, the prey was theirs. But she had been around for a long time now. Surely they wouldn’t mind him having a little peek.
His translucent body moves creepily silent towards the coastal cave, and without a word, he appears at the cave opening. Not exactly blocking the sunlight’s rays, casting something of a not-shadow over the rocky floor. He waits a bit for her to notice, then makes his way in.
For all that he is silent in the forested area, his hooves still click on the rock as his ghostly self approaches the prison. He can’t touch her, is not allowed as far as he is concerned. But perhaps with a bit of a chat, he can still find out what makes her tick.
 Rajanish son of a dark god Love is hurting if it screams - oh, if it's
screaming out loud
@[wound]
| I t’s a sight she’s grown used to — the melodies of the forest humming just outside the cavern before growing quiet as a shadow appears to block the light from her cavern and also block the hope from her thoughts.
There’s a weight in her chest that doesn’t come from her child’s presence. It keeps her awake at night, pressing on her lungs in a way that makes her feel like she is drowning. Although this is the feeling that frequently plagues her, often Wound will feel weightless. These are the days she much prefers — when their stinging words and laughter over her pain fade away into a hazy-white background and she can feel her thoughts separate from her body so she can float above the world, lost in the clouds and pale blue of the sky.
When the boy approaches, her chest feels thick and heavy. Wound turns her petite head in his direction and there’s almost a smile (as delirious as it might be) on her lips. The sunlight seems to filter through his gangly body, producing a hazy shadow where a fully-present one would normally be, and highlighting the lighter shades of color in his growing mane. Yet she cannot help but worry at his age; he is much too young to be exposed to the whims of such evil creatures, in her mothering mind.
Although she is broken, she is strong.
Her voice is a rough croak when she speaks, grating from her countless hours of screaming. “Your mother lets you live here?” Wound cannot imagine sending Wishbone (or even the bastard child growing within her now) to this vile place and her heart aches for the boy. “What’s your name?” She is wary of him (they have reawakened the anxieties her brothers had instilled originally, thoughts of strangers and dangers and unspoken plotting) but her words are gentle and warm… The voice of a mother.
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credit to nat of adoxography.
@[Rajanish]
It's funny - he has all these prying questions prepared, but immediately upon seeing him, she shows just what she's made of - motherhood, and perhaps nothing much more. She is pregnant to emphasize this, heavily so, but the shock and distress from her tone makes it clear that she has no idea about his own mother - that she wanted him to be strong, and to learn, things he holds sacred himself also.
To think he doesn't want this himself is crazy.
"I decide to still live here. My mother only gave birth to me here." And she'd chosen the best place, to shape him, to become strong; mentally, there's nothing that could surprise him any more. "As you will, too." he counters, with a smile towards his belly. Another plaything, or will it be a playmate? Now - wouldn't that upset this mother-mare. He grins almost, at her question. "Does it matter?" Honestly, she could have - should have - paid more attention to the meetings she was forced to attend. If she thought names were important in her state, she should have tried to remember them.
Rajanish son of a dark god Love is hurting if it screams - oh, if it's
screaming out loud
@[wound]
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