Hippogryph was not designed to be a mother. Her own mother had died after giving birth to her, had died in fear, startled by the child she brought into the world. She had leapt away clumsily when the raven filly stumbled towards her, had tripped and fallen and cracked her head on stone, bleeding into the ever-thirsty beach sand. Killing her mother is Hippogryph's very first memory. It is one of few. The madness gripped her soon after, filled her mind with too many fears and strange habits to bother with storing memories away. She lives in a world of paranoia and hallucinations and sickness, none of which is much helped by her habit of eating morning glories until the toxin makes her disoriented and agitated, until her skin twitches violently and the pupils of her glazed eyes grow wide. She sees nothing.
In such a drunken haze, the child comes, and through the birthing process she stumbles across the meadow without noticing until her forelegs tangle in the meadow-grass and she falls roughly to her knees. The filly slips from her like a dead thing, small and silent, the color of dried blood, and her mother is so slow to stand and turn, to look at the little beast. She seems perfectly formed, at first, a miracle given her heritage and her mother's self-medicating, but she lifts her head free from the heavy grip of gravity and the proof of those curses becomes clear - her lower jaw is malformed. Eyelids flutter open and unfocused yellow eyes struggle to find clarity in the dark smudge of her mother against the bright sky. If anybody - anybody other than the black mare herself - had witnessed the births of both children, they might recognize the expression that tightens every line of Hippogryph's face, the way she rocks back on her haunches and her ears bury themselves in her wild, knotted mane.
The filly also sees nothing, her eyes unaccustomed to the brightness of this new world. And unlike her brother before her, she has no gifts to rein in her mother's basest instincts, so when the raven black lunges at her youngest child with open jaws and rolling eyes, the tiny chestnut is caught unaware, trying to sit up as instinct drives her to stand. The force of impact throws her backwards with a startled squeal and the ground beneath her is hard despite the cushion of grass. Teeth close on the back of her neck and the blurred vision gives way to stars as she is shaken violently and tossed again, landing with a thud that knocks the breath from her lungs and a sharp pain in her shoulder that leaves her groaning softly. Then there is a shock, a bright white light like sound, and nothing. Panting and sweating, Hippogryph stands over the body of her daughter, grown still after one stone-hard hoof found it's mark on that tiny, delicate forehead, marking the white of the star with a trail of blood that oozes slowly down into the earth. The yellow eyes are shut and no breath stirs in that fragile chest. She stamps at the ground, scarring it, then turns with a snort and runs haphazardly away.
She has no way of knowing the child is immortal. Who could know? Yet no predators come to the place where she lies secluded and still, and slowly - so slowly - the wounds heal, the bones knit. Days pass, perhaps even weeks, but eventually Death's grip loosens. Her heart flutters in her breast like a startled bird and the yellow-eyed girl sits up with a gasp, rears up so suddenly that her limbs, still unused to walking, succeed only in bucking her backwards, somersaulting in the tall grass. When she lands in a tangle of too-thin legs her eyes cast about wildly for an attacker, for danger, but there is nothing to be seen, only flycatchers swooping in the air.
In such a drunken haze, the child comes, and through the birthing process she stumbles across the meadow without noticing until her forelegs tangle in the meadow-grass and she falls roughly to her knees. The filly slips from her like a dead thing, small and silent, the color of dried blood, and her mother is so slow to stand and turn, to look at the little beast. She seems perfectly formed, at first, a miracle given her heritage and her mother's self-medicating, but she lifts her head free from the heavy grip of gravity and the proof of those curses becomes clear - her lower jaw is malformed. Eyelids flutter open and unfocused yellow eyes struggle to find clarity in the dark smudge of her mother against the bright sky. If anybody - anybody other than the black mare herself - had witnessed the births of both children, they might recognize the expression that tightens every line of Hippogryph's face, the way she rocks back on her haunches and her ears bury themselves in her wild, knotted mane.
The filly also sees nothing, her eyes unaccustomed to the brightness of this new world. And unlike her brother before her, she has no gifts to rein in her mother's basest instincts, so when the raven black lunges at her youngest child with open jaws and rolling eyes, the tiny chestnut is caught unaware, trying to sit up as instinct drives her to stand. The force of impact throws her backwards with a startled squeal and the ground beneath her is hard despite the cushion of grass. Teeth close on the back of her neck and the blurred vision gives way to stars as she is shaken violently and tossed again, landing with a thud that knocks the breath from her lungs and a sharp pain in her shoulder that leaves her groaning softly. Then there is a shock, a bright white light like sound, and nothing. Panting and sweating, Hippogryph stands over the body of her daughter, grown still after one stone-hard hoof found it's mark on that tiny, delicate forehead, marking the white of the star with a trail of blood that oozes slowly down into the earth. The yellow eyes are shut and no breath stirs in that fragile chest. She stamps at the ground, scarring it, then turns with a snort and runs haphazardly away.
She has no way of knowing the child is immortal. Who could know? Yet no predators come to the place where she lies secluded and still, and slowly - so slowly - the wounds heal, the bones knit. Days pass, perhaps even weeks, but eventually Death's grip loosens. Her heart flutters in her breast like a startled bird and the yellow-eyed girl sits up with a gasp, rears up so suddenly that her limbs, still unused to walking, succeed only in bucking her backwards, somersaulting in the tall grass. When she lands in a tangle of too-thin legs her eyes cast about wildly for an attacker, for danger, but there is nothing to be seen, only flycatchers swooping in the air.
Crackjaw
Dreamscar x Hippogryph
