[private] i was born in the rain on the pontchartrain; ivar/birthing

[wrena]

Wrena

Their son was born in a violent storm on a beach just like his mother. The pain was incredible but she never panicked. Wrena normally relished being alone but there was one moment where she swore she saw her Grandmother’s stocky silhouette and it comforted her. From her water breaking to the moment her child slid out of her and into the cold spring air it was not very long. The ordeal is a blur of searing, blinding pain – the time that follows, however, drips by slowly and sweetly. The girl is not warm, never has been, reptilian and cold. But when she stands, a cold sweat beaded across her skin, she licks him like she might die if she does not touch him all over.

Call it instincts, as she would in her normal state of mind, but her body forgets the pain and relishes in what she’s done.

She’s had nothing but disdain for the little sucker since she first felt him wiggle behind her ribs. He’s made her sick, dribble piss down her own legs, never lets her sleep, sore all over…but…but look at him! Wrena is lost in him from then on, guiding him to his legs and showing him where to suckle. He is stout and strong, it does not take him long to unfurl his long legs and his matching leathery wings.

She waits until morning, the storms subsided, and she lets out a loud echoing call for Ivar. She is on his island, where she’s been her whole pregnancy pretty much, so she hoped he was not far.

@[Ivar]

[Ivar]

The scaled kelpie has little interest in the monotony of pregnancy, nor does he care for the fits of temper that so often afflict mares in that condition. Though he keeps a handful of women on his northestern island, his tending to them primarily consists of guarding the shoreline to keep them from wandering. From time to time he seeks out those that are not with child, but as he saw Wrena growing wider he has let the distance (physical and otherwise) between them do much the same. There are others that are unafflicted, others with whom he can dally without risking the children that grow within them.

Wrena’s dragon blood has given him hope, and though he keeps to the depths whenever she makes her way to the beach, he has watched with golden-eyed interest as he belly swelled wider and wider with his child. A kelpie, he hopes, a kelpie to join him in the sea and keep the Nereids at bay. Dragonblood has given him kelpies in the past, after all, and though he knows his sire would groan aloud, Ivar has always been proudest of the children he has gotten on his dragon woman.

So he has hopes for Wrena’s child too, and when she calls him in the wake of a dark storm he arrives with little delay.

He steps onto the sand with a shake of his waterlogged mane, each hoof carefully placed. It has been some time since he walked four-footed, but the muscle memory of it is well-returned by the time he joins the blood bay mare and their son. The boy is striped with gold and bears his mother’s wings, but his body is covered in fur rather than scales, and there is no telltale glimmer of teeth between his dark lips.

“Is he a kelpie?” Is his salt rough question, spoken as he looks down with slightly narrowed golden eyes and his head rested possessively across Wrena’s smooth back.

@[wrena]