The ironheart knows she should probably stand, but her vast experience of giving birth to twins tells her that any attempts will be futile. It's far safer to remain down here on the ground, rather than risk trying to stand and falling promptly back down on top of her newborns. Now the initial terror has passed, she can observe her second foal as closely as she had with the first. The girl's fur is darker than the boy's, but she shares his petite wings and horn-nubs that mark her as a hybrid. She thrashes to try and rid herself of the remains of the red bag, and Nyx is concerned she may break those fledgling limbs with her flailing, but she knows she cannot be too overprotective. The girl is obviously strong and hardy - weaker foals may have suffocated in their crimson prison.

A healer arrives, then; a champagne-coated mare with blue horns and the kindly aura of one who mends wounds, not creates them. Although protective of her newborns, Nyx nonetheless allows this woman to approach and to sever the filly's cord - something the silver hadn't even thought of doing in her stress and tiredness-addled mind. "Thank you," she breathes, lifting up her head enough to whicker her gratitude before it tumbles heavily back to the ground. The mare - who, from Gaucho's exclamation, Nyx assumes to be called Sikeax - asks what happened, and the silver manages a weak swish of her tail to rid herself of the gathering flies as she ponders her answer. "The first foal - the boy - was fine. His was just a normal birth....but then when the girl came, she was wrapped in a red bag, and I couldn't break it with my teeth so Dominus had to do it....then she wasn't breathing for a couple of seconds, until I licked her. She seems fine now, but...do you think she will be okay?" Concern tints the grey's words as she presses her muzzle softly against her daughter's fur, then moves to the colt as well so he doesn't feel left out. Now the relief has ebbed slightly, she's beginning to fear that the traumatic birth could have lasting consequences for the little girl.

With a laborious groan, the silver shifts her hindleg to expose her teats, and tries to gently nuzzle both children in that general direction so they may have their vital first feed. Normally, the allure of milk is what makes them stand up, but she doesn't think anything too dramatic will happen if she allows them to feed first and then coaxes them to stand.

Her gaze shifts to Gaucho, standing like a great dark sentinel near the little huddle of foals and mares. "Would you like to name them?" After all, Nyx's track record of naming is...not the best. She'd called her last two children after 'misery' and 'war' for heaven's sake, which she now holds a hint of regret over. What sort of bitch-mother damns her children to such morbid names? No, she thinks it safer that these two receive names from a loving father, not an exhausted and vindictive mother.