06-28-2020, 09:59 AM
never thirsty, ever drinking
"Hello, Little Fish."
Dace draws up cautiously to the filly lying prone on the beach, voice, and head low as he speaks. She smells of brine, and there is salt crusting on her eyelashes. He extends his muzzle out to hover over her limp frame as it wracks itself with coughing. Nearly drowned? But she does not seem weak in that way, only cold, and tired, pressed beyond the capacity of a young body. In the chill of an early autumn morning, it will do her recovery no good to be soaked through, and he brushes his nose against her shoulder lightly, wicking away the thin skin of water clinging to the filly, surrounding himself with a faint shimmer of droplets that sparkles like fire then falls away into the sand beneath him. Only her legs remain wet where they are still in the water.
"Can you stand?" There are warmer places to stay than this brackish place where the stormy wind and waves crash together against the river's mouth, and it is a wonder that if the girl came by sea, she was not simply dashed against the black and jagged rocks there, yet she appears whole and unharmed. "Come, you'll have to walk, I can't carry you."
The stallion's blue-grey eyes catch her gold ones as she looks wildly around her and he sees the lack of recognition within them. Home is not here, but even if he were familiar with all the lands of Beqanna, the scent of where it might be has been washed away by the saltwater. Dace looks out at the choppy water thoughtfully, wondering if perhaps the answers are there, they almost certainly are, but he would have to piece the trail together, and from the look of the foal's exhausted body, he would have to travel further from land than would be wise, so he sighs and drops his muzzle close to her once again, exhaling softly from soft nostrils.
"Tell me about your home, Little Fish. Did you come from the bottom of the sea?"
Dace draws up cautiously to the filly lying prone on the beach, voice, and head low as he speaks. She smells of brine, and there is salt crusting on her eyelashes. He extends his muzzle out to hover over her limp frame as it wracks itself with coughing. Nearly drowned? But she does not seem weak in that way, only cold, and tired, pressed beyond the capacity of a young body. In the chill of an early autumn morning, it will do her recovery no good to be soaked through, and he brushes his nose against her shoulder lightly, wicking away the thin skin of water clinging to the filly, surrounding himself with a faint shimmer of droplets that sparkles like fire then falls away into the sand beneath him. Only her legs remain wet where they are still in the water.
"Can you stand?" There are warmer places to stay than this brackish place where the stormy wind and waves crash together against the river's mouth, and it is a wonder that if the girl came by sea, she was not simply dashed against the black and jagged rocks there, yet she appears whole and unharmed. "Come, you'll have to walk, I can't carry you."
The stallion's blue-grey eyes catch her gold ones as she looks wildly around her and he sees the lack of recognition within them. Home is not here, but even if he were familiar with all the lands of Beqanna, the scent of where it might be has been washed away by the saltwater. Dace looks out at the choppy water thoughtfully, wondering if perhaps the answers are there, they almost certainly are, but he would have to piece the trail together, and from the look of the foal's exhausted body, he would have to travel further from land than would be wise, so he sighs and drops his muzzle close to her once again, exhaling softly from soft nostrils.
"Tell me about your home, Little Fish. Did you come from the bottom of the sea?"
@[Elayne]
