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08-27-2016, 01:07 PM
esinakh
She was content, beneath the nuzzle of her brother and gentle touches of mother. These sensations were warm. Not as hot as the heat of suffocating blood; nor as cold as the quickly cooling afterbirth soup she laid in. Her mother’s soft touches turn to guiding nudges, towards—towards what? A sweet smell of life wafted into her nostrils between the overwhelming stench of iron-tanged blood around her.
Yet, before she could move any further in response to mother’s nudging, a new warmth spread across her bony shoulder. Abruptly, still-cloudy eyes jerked up, head and horn-nubs swinging haphazardly through the hair, coming face-to-face with a black nose and starkly white bone. Her too-large head bobbled on her small neck as she craned backwards, cloudy white eyes trying to focus on the fuzzy, warm being that spoke some deep word. Some parts of her addled consciousness recognized the importance of such a word; but, truly, she would not recognize her own name until another (likely brother) spoke it once again to her.
She moved to stand—but her body was already exhausted from nearly being stillborn. So, instead, her small frame of bones and angles wiggled out of the bloodied, failed infant tomb. Her tiny hooves scrambled, the foal slipper still blunting them. And she wiggled right to the source of the sweet smell; the only reprieve from the stench of birth that had surrounded her.
With a happy bleat, she slowly latched on to mother’s teat, milk mixing with blood in pinkish swirls on her white-spattered muzzle. An ear tipped backwards, waiting and listening for brother to join her in her meal.
Yet, before she could move any further in response to mother’s nudging, a new warmth spread across her bony shoulder. Abruptly, still-cloudy eyes jerked up, head and horn-nubs swinging haphazardly through the hair, coming face-to-face with a black nose and starkly white bone. Her too-large head bobbled on her small neck as she craned backwards, cloudy white eyes trying to focus on the fuzzy, warm being that spoke some deep word. Some parts of her addled consciousness recognized the importance of such a word; but, truly, she would not recognize her own name until another (likely brother) spoke it once again to her.
She moved to stand—but her body was already exhausted from nearly being stillborn. So, instead, her small frame of bones and angles wiggled out of the bloodied, failed infant tomb. Her tiny hooves scrambled, the foal slipper still blunting them. And she wiggled right to the source of the sweet smell; the only reprieve from the stench of birth that had surrounded her.
With a happy bleat, she slowly latched on to mother’s teat, milk mixing with blood in pinkish swirls on her white-spattered muzzle. An ear tipped backwards, waiting and listening for brother to join her in her meal.
vod chafaan
dust to the wind
I felt the need to reply to this again! <3
Please tag Esinakh.
