City
When she met the group in the field that desperate autumn day she had been just three quarters of the way to the end of her pregnancy. As her mother before her she doesn’t have too much more weight on her other than the child squirming inside of her swollen abdomen. She travelled west that day, knowing it would take her ages to get there in her condition…and that was before the great quakes and massive chunks of land falling into the hungry sea. Beqanna had rebelled again, she set off her alarms and shifted her pieces, and the faeries have feasted for now. One can always feel it when the faeries decide they’ll take a break. City travels slow and methodical, taking her time as she picks along the coast. She spent time in the River, waiting for the winter’s first signs before heading northward for the final push. For one whole day she struggles with intermittent pain and a restless prisoner within her. Rain drifts down ever gently. She’s on the coast; storms are brewing and thundering miles away and within her as well. Each time a flash of lightening and a crack of thunder webs across the sky the fetus inside of her, no fetus anymore, kicks furiously. She walks with her ankles buried in soft sand and lapping sea-foam from the gentle waves crashing along the open beach to the north-east of the hills. In the night the rain beats harder and come the morning she had to find a thicket among the shallow hillocks and birch forests bordering the lake. She was born there in the early rose-colored hours of a wet spring morning in a thicket of winter-berries and white trunked trees. Oleandar, said with City’s thick Valley accent, purring softly in your ear.
By that afternoon the child was dry(ish) and fit to travel. The pair makes their way out of the hidden thicket and back on the main path, the pale, wide-eyed moth child awkwardly steps in the light for the first time. The forests dappled shadows drink her happily and beside her exhausted looking mother she seems to glow in the dawn’s light. City stops for a moment to preen at the little thing a bit more, checking her over carefully. The filly is all legs and pale gold. Her nose is a mottle pink fading into white that moves up her nose and sharply stops at a point between her large baby-blue eyes. Those eyes see more colors than any regular filly could ever imagine. For now things beyond the distance of her mother’s freckled hip only melt together; the sweet smell of her mother’s milk and an occasional soft nicker pulling her along. She bears wings, bright and delicate. Each wing is constructed of two parts so that they may fold against her ribs like a pair of regular Pegasus wings. Long tails dangle from behind her, rusty and yellow colored. Each fragile appendage adorns a set of gray and black eye-patterns on each side surrounded by yellowish green and rusty patches throughout. An inky black border lines the edges and paints the very tips of each. Her mouth looks only slightly different from your typical equine muzzle, but just a bit parroted. Her top lip narrows and extends rather dramatically to help control her long nectar hunting tongue (her proboscis). As she grows older her mother’s milk nor her mother’s method of feeding will healthily sustain her. In time she’ll only want fruits, occasional fodder and nectar from special flowers. Her long legs are high-socked, the white marking serrated at their edges as they crawl up her lank, fuzz riddled limbs. These leg hairs are long and fluffed like feathery fishbones, or like dandelion seedlings floating in the breeze. They can read those very breezes as they subtly dance in its mild current. For now the baby doesn’t do much but follow her mother wide-eyed and silent.
They travel for a few more days before she can hear the crashing of sea to granite wall. The saccharine smell of heather mixed with the wind-swept aroma of salt is the first thing both of them notice, both digesting it differently. To daughter the smell is one of the first to burrow itself into her memory, among those of the soil she was born on and the scent of her mother. The mother welcomes the aromas, having never lived by the sea before, immediately soaking in the bugless flow of constant wind. This wind keeps the trees at bay, she can see as she walks quietly over the invisible border of Nerine. She’s still on the coast, travelling by sand-way and sometimes in the small forests along the ocean’s edge. The pale mother leads her tiny leggy moth-baby inland a mile or so. The earth seems to rise in front of them and the ocean sinks at their backs. They scale the greenery lining the granite steppes; it is a giant land ramp in some parts and a dead drop in others. Trees only managing to group where the wind does not rip. Heather of all colors masses across the lush landscape. She stops out in the open somewhere, the afternoon sun finding her grazing and her child nursing happily. Every so often the freckled mare will lift her head and scan the horizon with her yellow eyes to look for someone moving in on them, but otherwise she chews hungrily at the spring grasses at her feet.
rushed and filled with all I found
more, give me more, give me more
OPEN TO EVERYONE
@[Orion's Belt] recruited her awhile back and so here she is
sorry for rambling! i tried to explain what freakbaby looks like accurately XD TRIED
in this post and in my head really lol i designed Nerine after Porthcurno, Cornwall, England.
it's a stunning place and sounds about right XD
