Forget stardust - you are iron.
Your blood is nothing but ferrous liquid.
She grows wider with every passing day, and though the growth is infinitesimal it is impossible not to notice.
Dorne has never been a small creature, but she knows that she’d fit between these two trees a month ago, and now she has to walk around them to avoid scraping the wide sides of her belly against the vine-wrapped trunks. The children inside her are not at all appreciative of the care she takes for them, and pummel her sides with their hooves night and day. If one is sleeping the other is awake, and Dorne has dark circles beneath her eyes from lack of sleep. She is grateful every day for her decision to come to the Jungle for her pregnancy; she cannot imagine trying to find a home in this condition, or to protect herself from danger.
She is accustomed to relying on physical strength and this pregnancy has her feeling like a bumbling fool.
Dorne also has an ever increasing resect for her mother. Vanquish had not been a small stallion, and while the father of Dorne’s children was no pony, she is grateful that the children in her womb are not the gargantuan creatures that her brothers were. A good portion of her day is spent imagining what they will look like, these two children living inside her. Will they have her looks or their father’s? She would not mind if they take after Ammit with his golden good looks and svelte build, but she cannot help but wish for them to at least inherit her spots. She pictures two dozing palomino children with her mother’s spots on their sides, but the perfect image is broken by a sharp kick from one of the little angels.
Sighing, Dorne shifts her weight and begins to walk again, waddling her way toward the stream in the distance. She’s not socialized much with the other mares here; she prefers to keep to herself. This is not her permanent home, after all, and it would not do to grow attached to women that she intends to leave someday.
Dorne
You are iron. And you are strong