"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
09-20-2020, 02:18 PM (This post was last modified: 09-20-2020, 02:20 PM by Blasphemare.)
blasphemare
Spring had arrived. With it, the snows had begun to melt, and the grasses were once again turning green. The winds whispered through the trees, now bright with pink, purple, white, blue, and red flowers. It almost seemed wrong that the world should look so beautiful in the wake of so much destruction that had recently rolled through it, but it was almost a blessing as well. Blasphemare stands to the edge of the meadow, those blood-colored eyes scanning the world around her. She had grown large in just a few short months. The foal within would now be ready to come out, and not a moment too soon. She’d grown weary of him jabbing her sides with his hooves. She wasn’t particularly looking forward to what would come next, however, the cramps, the stretching, the pain. It had been so long since she had been through it that now it would be like going through it for the first time all over again, and her magic was weak after the quest, so she wouldn’t be able to use it while also going through the tiring event of birthing. Still, she could use it to evict the child from her womb. And this she does, concentrating on the pathways that would signal the birthing process to begin, and soon, she could feel the vestiges of cramping in her womb. She shifts her weight and concentrates on the child within, shifting him around so that his hooves are positioned to come out first, and that’s the most she could do with her magic. Now the waiting began. To pass the time, she takes to wandering the perimeter of the meadow, pacing. This helps with the cramps at least somewhat. Soon enough, however, the cramps come on one after the other, and this is when she decides it is time to lay down. So she finds a spot where the grasses are tall and lush, and hides herself within. From there, it doesn’t take long to push the child from her womb. He is beautiful, his ombré coat going from black to teal, with an actual star shining from his forehead, and the shadows around him shimmer and shift unnaturally. Instantly, Blasphemare feels that love, that adoration for the child that only a mother could feel for her baby. He immediately begins to squirm and struggle, pushing himself to his tiny, unsteady hooves, and she rises with him, struggling herself with the effort, gently touching his side to help him steady himself.
Birthing, it was the second best season after breeding. Love and affection filled the air, and just as dew settled in the morning the sweet sugar of love landed on the outstretched tongue of a young, handsome stallion. Pothos’s lips quivered, and a reactive moan escaped them as he curled his tongue back into his mouth. He pressed the sugar-like grain between his tongue and teeth for a moment before rolling it along his gums while it dissolved. He knew the flavor well. It was unique to a mother. The dissolution of the invisible substance coursed through the stallion, and instilled him with vitality. Pothos felt an unusual strength and concluded that he had just tasted of something laced with impeccably unique magic.
The stallion was made up of vibrant colors, blues, greens, pinks, and more. Feathers not only adorned his double set of wings, but they were tucked in decoratively to his white cloud of mane and tail. Though Pothos was older, he often appeared as a youthful, well endowed stallion just past puberty. His own magic swirled around him and created an aura of attraction and sexual energy. He held his head high and pranced forward following the trail he had just picked up on.
As Pothos neared the mare he enlarged his wings and magically altered his voice to a soothing, yet obnoxiously loud volume, ”HELLO, MY DARLING…..” He expounded. His magic pulsed, and he expelled a sense of love, familiarity, and comfort toward the mare. Lowering his volume he continued ”Why what a sweet, sweet boy you have”. Pothos attempted to approach uncomfortably close. His head lowered toward the foal, and his lips pursed. ”You are such a cutie, yes, yes you are” His voice now transitioned to baby-talk. All the while his nose visibly flared, and he inhaled the addictive strain of motherly love.
I’m so sorry he’s being kinda creepy hehe @[Blasphemare]
09-29-2020, 03:46 PM (This post was last modified: 09-29-2020, 03:47 PM by Blasphemare.)
blasphemare
The love Blasphemare feels for the child is less than what it should ave been, dulled by the lack of emotions that had plagued her ever since she had participated in. Carnage’s quest. Still, it is there, something to be thankful for, if she could feel thankful. That is apparently something that cannot be stolen, a sacred bond that exists between a mother and her child. Then again, this could also be the beginning of her emotions coming back to her?
The child manages to stand on his gangly legs, shaky as they were, and his first steps follow closely thereafter. Blasphemare wraps her neck gently over him and touches his side with her nose. That’s when she felt it.
The sensation was dulled, almost like it came from a distance, but it was there. Another being approached, this one exuding an air of love. Instantly, she drives up a magical barrier to prevent the sensation from taking hold of her. She extends it to encompass the child as well. It takes a lot out of her, another thing to be thankful for from Carnage, she thinks to herself. Her black head snakes around to find the flamboyant stallion approaching with such a carefree and lackadaisical attitude.
The stallion booms a loud greeting, to which Blasphemare might originally have been annoyed with, but she finds herself incapable of feeling at all, except that little bit when her son was born. Instead, she returns the greeting in a very lukewarm manner. "Hello,” is all she said.
Her magic was weak, and she could still feel the sense of love, familiarity and comfort that the stallion puts off, and a quick glance at the child tells her he could feel it as well. The foal looks up at the brilliantly colored horse with an air of awed fascination, rather than the fear of strangers that might otherwise have come over a newborn. This should have annoyed Blasphemare, but once again, the feeling escapes her. She instantly tries to renew her efforts to block out the stallion’s own magical abilities, but without a sense of urgency, the efforts are a failure. Thankfully her emotions are still on the fritz, so she barely feels the love, familiarity and comfort that rolls off the stallion, not so much for the little one, however. So instead, she steps between the foal and the stallion.
"Can I help you?” she asks, wondering if there is any ill intent in the other’s approach.
It feels like time stands still as Pothos examines the foal. He envies the purity of youth. When one is young the whole world is fresh, new, and filled with endless options. With age comes wisdom, and unfortunately that wisdom inhibits fun and love. Pothos sees it on the faces of horses everyday. They are accustomed to hurt and thus have turned themselves off. They no longer have interest in pursuing true love or passion. It is a shame indeed, but in the eyes of this foal Pothos sees beautiful innocence.
A voice redirects his attention to the mother. Pothos looks up and smiles. A pulse of magical energy radiates from him. It is instinctive, and filled with a sense of familial warmth. ”Oh no, I’m so sorry” He speaks with a slight chuckle laced in the latter note. ”I am merely admiring your sweet blessing.” His head gestures toward the foal. ”I am Pothos.” He adds.
Back to her child. Pothos adjusts his smile to a grin. His eyes shimmer, and suddenly his form shrinks to mirror that of the foal. Pothos coat remains in its colorful pattern though his wings are still the same as his adult self. One of his enlarged wings curves forward and attempts to boop the nose of the foal. When the wing comes within Pothos’s view his eyes bulge out like a shocked clown. ”Ahhhhhh!” He says exaggerated in a child-like attempt to get the foal to laugh. He then winks and shrinks his wings to properly match him. ”And what’s your name?” He inquires of the foal. Pothos isn’t that experienced with newborns. He thinks for a moment, perhaps it's too soon for the foal to speak. ”Maybe your mommy could answer for you if you’re too shy. I’d love to know her name as well”
@[Blasphemare] Sorry for the late reply! I moved to another state to start my new/old job. I was laid off due to company wide orders (Covid). Luckily I got severance for a month, and another pharmacist quit so a position opened up for me to go back. All that to say that I suck for being late <3
Blasphemare keeps an eye (she would say curious, but she is incapable of feeling that emotion right now) on the foal as the stallion examines him. The foal stands behind her, shy and innocent, his star beaming brightly from his forehead. He is definitely curious, unlike his mother, and almost enthralled with the stallion, if he wasn’t so shy at the moment, having just been born. He stands on unsteady hooves, shaking ever so slightly with the effort of standing up.
The stallion radiates that sense of familiarity, and she could barely feel it once more, then he apologizes and introduces himself as Pothos. The name seems almost interesting to Blasphemare, if she found anything interesting right now. She remains quiet as he immediately diverts his attention back to her child. She thought it kind of weird, wondering if he is some kind of pedophile. The thought should have scared her, but it didn’t.
As the stallion shrinks to the size of a foal, the actual foal shies away slightly, startled by this sudden use of magic. He stumbles into Blasphemare’s hindquarters as she reaches around to help steady him. When he is back on his hooves, he eyes the other “foal” curiously and steps forward. The mare should have been uncomfortable by this curiosity, but she simply watches. She could protect him if need be. Pothos then extends an unusually large wing forward, and the foal backs up into his mother, still shy, despite the curiosity.
When Pothos asks for a name, she realizes that this is all so new that she had yet to even name the child. She stands there for a moment, thinking it over. "His name is Aqorix. And I am Blasphemare.”
