Tauti
Sota
Nälkä
Tähti
Life in the Cove with Clayton, the sire, hadn’t really worked out for them. Moreso because he was still grieving the loss of Dawn’s love for him, the greying fake-yearling thinks, than because he actually meant to neglect them or anything. But the fact was that four young foals (granted, mother had the life experience of a 7-year old, but her children didn’t) were too much to keep track on for one stallion.
It’s not anybody’s fault they turned out this way, she thinks. In fact - it’s pretty obvious that they developed the way they always would have, their instincts guiding them.
The white yearling shakes the green mane out of her eyes, scans the horizon. Something had changed. Something very unnatural had happened, even though she could not exactly pinpoint what it was or why. They’d all heard the call for a loved lost one, but when the triplets had looked at one another they shook their heads - no, mother was with them, for some reason. The ebony filly had explained to them her curse of not-dying, and frankly nothing could be done about it.
But while the red-eyed white girl had come to accept that immortality was a thing in Beqanna, she didn’t quite agree with crossing into the realm of the dead like the ghost’s call had proposed, and she wasn’t surprised at all when the dead crashed through it with the ones who were on their way back.
She walks into the Field, and the rest of their little herd (consisting of three fillies and a colt, all yearlings nearing their second year by the looks of it) follows suit. It’s not because they think her the leader, but by now, where one goes, the rest follows. In fact, it’s a silent agreement that when one of them wants to approach or investigate something, they’re all-in. A simple rule they live by.
Others have gathered, as well. One male in particular stares the simple-looking grey mare down, but they all know looks can be deceiving. Another approaches from the shadows - Tauti glares at him a little, and then she simply walks up to the mare. Seeing as only the last male had spoken, she figured she might as well start. ”I’m Tauti. You don’t really belong, do you?” she asks. She doesn’t really know why she has that feeling - it might be the staring male, it might be the shadowy-one - Stave, he’d said - but whatever it is, it might even just be the mare herself.
The slow approach of twelve other hooves means the others have gathered, too. The raven-maned and likewise winged mother of the three in the middle, right behind her same-aged daughter; the black one looking intensely at the other males with silver peering eyes, the red one looking rather bored.
All in all, a curious quartet.