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    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    [open]  I believe, 'cos I can see, future days of you and me [birthing]
    #1


    WHERE THE SKIES END




    It had been a mistake. Nothing more, nothing less but as the months went by, Warstorm found herself regretting it more and more. It is one thing to rebel against her father's word -- it's another to behave like some loose trollop with a permanently lifted tail. The mare doesn't even know the stallion's name. It's positively shameful. But, what was done is done, and Warstorm as spent the entirety of this year feeling the mistake she made grow.

    Sweat shimmers on her neck and shoulders as Warstorm paces beneath the overhang of one of the few trees in the Meadow. The moon is full on this cloudless night -- bright enough to cast moonshadow and reflect light off of the sweat on her heaving sides. No one is around, and there is no sound beyond the singing of the crickets and the soft breeze. It's as good a time as any, not that the pegasus mare has any feeling of control over this process. 

    She'd be lying if she said she wasn't scared. Oh, she knows how birth is supposed to go, but knowing and doing are two different things, and Warstorm finds herself desperately missing her mother and grandmother. I wish you were here. I don't want to do this alone. She'd even take the company of her father, even though he couldn't help her even if he wanted to. Besides ... how could she tell him? How could she possibly tell her sire that she's in labor thanks to a one-night-stand with a stallion who's name she doesn't even know? 

    You're a disgrace, Warstorm.

    Groaning, her knees finally buckle and she goes down heavily onto her side. All she has now is instinct and an outsider's knowledge, and a prayer that some wolf pack won't come up on her when she's vulnerable. Agony blossoms like the opening of a desert flower, but she has to keep quiet. Alone, the pegasus mare strains, soaked with sweat until it drips off of her neck by the time the hard part is over with, and the pressure suddenly lessens like a noose being cut. 

    Warstorm lays there and pants for a moment, eyes closed and dark lips pulled up into a grimace. But, then it moves. Oh my god, it's moving. The maiden woman grunts and rolls onto her chest, looking over the heaving curve of her own belly, blue eyes searching. She's so tired, but she has to get up, and with a shuddering grunt, she does just that. Warstorm turns, head low and curved ears pricked forward as she looks at the tiny thing she helped to create. All doubts vanish the moment his eyes meet hers, a little yellow colored colt with wee wings pressed flat to his sides. 

    He's perfect. Warstorm smiles. "Hello, my sweet little one."


    WARSTORM





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