WEIR
Something had gone wrong, terribly wrong he would say- terribly and wonderfully wrong. Weir hadn’t meant for anything awful to happen, in fact, he wasn’t sure just how awful it all was in the end. The roan male wanted to help, he wanted to find his friend, he wanted to see if the rumor was true. That gathering, their journey was supposed to be a rescue mission, a search and rescue mission to exact. Search for whom? Warship of course. It seems he was not so dead as one might think, not so deceased as he himself had been led to believe after the nightmare of the War had ended. In fact Warship was alive, very much alive and both Kimber and Prague had assured him of this.
Was it his fault they had found him? Was it his fault that the magic mistress had her own agenda? Certainly not I say, most certainly not.
Of course he couldn’t just stand by as she meddled, couldn’t let the Amazon do her bidding because it would have meant the end of his dearest friend. It would have meant death and this time that death would have been certain. Weir simply could not sit and watch, could not allow this to happen, Weir meddled and in turn he was meddled with.
He meant to divert the Magic, he hoped to turn it in on itself, to change that death sentence to one of life and in a way he did. For months he did not realize exactly what this meant, for a time he only thought he had made himself terribly ill in consequence but as he grew (or rather, his stomach grew) he knew better. In attempt to spare life had created it, in a way he had played God and in return he now held life within him- much like a woman would. Well, exactly like a woman would. In his haste and hurry Weir had made himself pregnant with that Magic, Weir was going to be a ‘Mother’.
Go ahead, laugh, it is quite the humorous ordeal he knows. Still even in its hilarity he can not help but think what a grand adventure in science this is. He would be a Mother, isn’t that something?
What isn’t really something, is the sickness that overtakes him with this so called Motherhood. The aches and pains that accompany the stretching of his insides, the burden of his weight. Lately he finds that he can’t do much more than waddle to and fro across the Dale, belly swaying awkwardly side to side with each step. At times it’s hard to breathe and mostly he just wants to sleep, which is what he decides to do now. A gentle spring afternoon is just the kind of day that calls for nap, ask anyone.
He doesn’t know that it snows now as he dozes, doesn’t know that he causes the air to chill and the sky to fall without asking it to. Weir also doesn’t know that the accumulation of moisture not only brings fresh, white powder, it also brings with it two young foals that shake free of the impromptu winter….
Was it his fault they had found him? Was it his fault that the magic mistress had her own agenda? Certainly not I say, most certainly not.
Of course he couldn’t just stand by as she meddled, couldn’t let the Amazon do her bidding because it would have meant the end of his dearest friend. It would have meant death and this time that death would have been certain. Weir simply could not sit and watch, could not allow this to happen, Weir meddled and in turn he was meddled with.
He meant to divert the Magic, he hoped to turn it in on itself, to change that death sentence to one of life and in a way he did. For months he did not realize exactly what this meant, for a time he only thought he had made himself terribly ill in consequence but as he grew (or rather, his stomach grew) he knew better. In attempt to spare life had created it, in a way he had played God and in return he now held life within him- much like a woman would. Well, exactly like a woman would. In his haste and hurry Weir had made himself pregnant with that Magic, Weir was going to be a ‘Mother’.
Go ahead, laugh, it is quite the humorous ordeal he knows. Still even in its hilarity he can not help but think what a grand adventure in science this is. He would be a Mother, isn’t that something?
What isn’t really something, is the sickness that overtakes him with this so called Motherhood. The aches and pains that accompany the stretching of his insides, the burden of his weight. Lately he finds that he can’t do much more than waddle to and fro across the Dale, belly swaying awkwardly side to side with each step. At times it’s hard to breathe and mostly he just wants to sleep, which is what he decides to do now. A gentle spring afternoon is just the kind of day that calls for nap, ask anyone.
He doesn’t know that it snows now as he dozes, doesn’t know that he causes the air to chill and the sky to fall without asking it to. Weir also doesn’t know that the accumulation of moisture not only brings fresh, white powder, it also brings with it two young foals that shake free of the impromptu winter….
WINTER IS COMING
@[broken] feel free to post fastlane to this or not. I haven't yet decided myself if I'm posting Rowling here, just wanted something up saying they were alive. Yay.