The sound of footsteps grows nearer, then pauses in a moment of indecision. The shadows flare up ahead of the stallion, wrapping around him, but Beryl is too weak and too new to this power to put any strength behind their attacks. The yellow-eyed creatures simply cling to the frosty, scaled roan like bits of dark cloud, cool to the touch like stepping out of the sun and into shade, but unable to stop his advance.
When he speaks, his voice, though confused and not particularly inviting, is also not openly hostile or threatening and the filly risks opening one eye nearly sealed shut with frost. Her eyelashes are heavy with salt and ice, but the eyelid flutters open - and even that is effort now, weak as she is - and a warm brown eye rolls, then focuses on him as he comes into view around the branches.
He is huge, much larger than the few horses she had met in the Meadow, heavily muscled and strangely scaled, but horse-like enough that she does not fear him the way she did so instinctively the black creatures in the canyon. She opens her other eye and meets his blue gaze, head still low, and greets him with a characteristically submissive chewing gesture. She does not answer his question - though it was rhetorical, of course - finding herself too frightened to speak, too exhausted, and her throat too raw with salt and sobbing for her voice to be more than a rasp.
Besides, it would be impossible to answer, she does not know how she got here.
The shadows still cling to him like smoke and it might make her laugh if it didn't underscore her helplessness, but they fade at last when it becomes apparent he does not mean to harm her. She attempts to stand on feet she cannot feel and stumbles, falling into the stallion even as he steps in to shelter her. Her breath crackles in her chest. Standing brings on a fit of coughing that wracks her body as though to crack her ribs, trying to expel the last of the water from beleaguered lungs. It leaves a thin trickle of pinkish fluid dripping down her muzzle and the whites of her eyes bloodshot. With a shudder, Beryl leans into him, even the small bit of heat the icy stallion has to share a relief to her wet and shivering frame. One forehoof knuckles over and she barely notices, her attempts to fix it clumsy and slow. Everything is clumsy and slow, her brow crumpled with concentration as she attempts to right herself, every muscle tight and complaining and her thoughts glacial, but she finally stands - half crouches, really - propped against his shoulder, and glances up with pleading eyes.
She doesn't want to die today, but the golden filly is not very far from that final shore.
When he speaks, his voice, though confused and not particularly inviting, is also not openly hostile or threatening and the filly risks opening one eye nearly sealed shut with frost. Her eyelashes are heavy with salt and ice, but the eyelid flutters open - and even that is effort now, weak as she is - and a warm brown eye rolls, then focuses on him as he comes into view around the branches.
He is huge, much larger than the few horses she had met in the Meadow, heavily muscled and strangely scaled, but horse-like enough that she does not fear him the way she did so instinctively the black creatures in the canyon. She opens her other eye and meets his blue gaze, head still low, and greets him with a characteristically submissive chewing gesture. She does not answer his question - though it was rhetorical, of course - finding herself too frightened to speak, too exhausted, and her throat too raw with salt and sobbing for her voice to be more than a rasp.
Besides, it would be impossible to answer, she does not know how she got here.
The shadows still cling to him like smoke and it might make her laugh if it didn't underscore her helplessness, but they fade at last when it becomes apparent he does not mean to harm her. She attempts to stand on feet she cannot feel and stumbles, falling into the stallion even as he steps in to shelter her. Her breath crackles in her chest. Standing brings on a fit of coughing that wracks her body as though to crack her ribs, trying to expel the last of the water from beleaguered lungs. It leaves a thin trickle of pinkish fluid dripping down her muzzle and the whites of her eyes bloodshot. With a shudder, Beryl leans into him, even the small bit of heat the icy stallion has to share a relief to her wet and shivering frame. One forehoof knuckles over and she barely notices, her attempts to fix it clumsy and slow. Everything is clumsy and slow, her brow crumpled with concentration as she attempts to right herself, every muscle tight and complaining and her thoughts glacial, but she finally stands - half crouches, really - propped against his shoulder, and glances up with pleading eyes.
She doesn't want to die today, but the golden filly is not very far from that final shore.
Beryl
Litotes x Mehendi
@[Leilan]
Messed up my tags like a dummy lol. He certainly can! She has nowhere else to go and might just follow Leilan around even if he doesn't
