05-03-2015, 09:46 AM
Covet does not pretend to be all knowing, nor does he pretend to have any sort of magic in his bones. If he did, well, he'd have found a way to strip himself of his bones. Magic was a disgusting force, poisonous and toxic and venomous and...frankly, it made his skin crawl. He is, however, capable of simple math. Librette should foal any day now. Covet is not so astute to notice the extra weight, nor the way she carries herself. He doesn't understand birthing or foaling - just the initial steps. Child rearing? Nope.
He sees Librette fly overhead and he knows. It's mathematically time. Why else would she retreat so deep into the woods?
So he takes his time - picking through the trees and the brush, traversing the walls and marrow of the valley. When he's finally arrived so many hours later he's missed the worst (best?) part.
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Of course a child of Covet would be so stoic, so orange-eyed, so unnatural. From the moment her dainty, childish hooves hit the ground it was obvious. She was chestnut like her mother, a spitting image of the Valley-loving woman. You passed over her markings - striking images of her mother - with the hint of the sinewy muscles of foalhood. She could have been her mother, truly, if it weren't for those eyes. Unnatural orange, and unnaturally vacant.
There were, of course, other aspects of her father. When she lands on the ground, when she's truly in this world, she lands unnaturally. Death should have come right then, it should have brought her to the afterlife before she took her first breath, but it didn't. She healed instantly, readily, and blinked against the realization. A normal child would have seen it as a way of life, Thorunn knew it was unnatural. She knew, suddenly and deeply, that she was not like the others.
And if Eight appeared to read her mind? He'd hear nothing.
She turns to her mother then, watching the other come. She is a mirror, and if Thorunn knew her eye color she'd see that very little separated them. She nudges her sister - hello friend. We are out, we are free, we are here! And she nurses, and she's content.
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Covet steps from the shadows, examining. Two fillies. Fillies. Had he hoped for a colt? For a strong likeness of him? Both of these girls were Librette's deep chestnut. One turns to look at him, her orange eyes critical and unnerving. The other? She is not so vacant, and Covet is at once taken. He sees Aranea, he sees himself, and he sees Librette. That is what he wanted, isn't it?
A strange sensation creeps through his blood. It's as if he's hot and cold at once, but it passes and he's himself again. Changed, perhaps, just a little - he attributes it to the orange eyed daughter.
"Have you named them?" he asks. No: how are you? No: can I help with anything? No, not Covet. Not them.
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The orange eyed filly looks to the black stallion, and she's uninterested. He is old, he is scarred - but these mean very little to her. She doesn't know what the roadmap on his body says. She does like his orange eyes, they're strange.
He sees Librette fly overhead and he knows. It's mathematically time. Why else would she retreat so deep into the woods?
So he takes his time - picking through the trees and the brush, traversing the walls and marrow of the valley. When he's finally arrived so many hours later he's missed the worst (best?) part.
--------------
Of course a child of Covet would be so stoic, so orange-eyed, so unnatural. From the moment her dainty, childish hooves hit the ground it was obvious. She was chestnut like her mother, a spitting image of the Valley-loving woman. You passed over her markings - striking images of her mother - with the hint of the sinewy muscles of foalhood. She could have been her mother, truly, if it weren't for those eyes. Unnatural orange, and unnaturally vacant.
There were, of course, other aspects of her father. When she lands on the ground, when she's truly in this world, she lands unnaturally. Death should have come right then, it should have brought her to the afterlife before she took her first breath, but it didn't. She healed instantly, readily, and blinked against the realization. A normal child would have seen it as a way of life, Thorunn knew it was unnatural. She knew, suddenly and deeply, that she was not like the others.
And if Eight appeared to read her mind? He'd hear nothing.
She turns to her mother then, watching the other come. She is a mirror, and if Thorunn knew her eye color she'd see that very little separated them. She nudges her sister - hello friend. We are out, we are free, we are here! And she nurses, and she's content.
-------------------
Covet steps from the shadows, examining. Two fillies. Fillies. Had he hoped for a colt? For a strong likeness of him? Both of these girls were Librette's deep chestnut. One turns to look at him, her orange eyes critical and unnerving. The other? She is not so vacant, and Covet is at once taken. He sees Aranea, he sees himself, and he sees Librette. That is what he wanted, isn't it?
A strange sensation creeps through his blood. It's as if he's hot and cold at once, but it passes and he's himself again. Changed, perhaps, just a little - he attributes it to the orange eyed daughter.
"Have you named them?" he asks. No: how are you? No: can I help with anything? No, not Covet. Not them.
-----------------
The orange eyed filly looks to the black stallion, and she's uninterested. He is old, he is scarred - but these mean very little to her. She doesn't know what the roadmap on his body says. She does like his orange eyes, they're strange.