Because, of course, no sin goes unpunished. She fears what her herdmates may think if they find out, if some vengeful God shows them glorious technicolour images of her primal tryst. She'll be unable to perform her duties for the duration of her pregnancy, and will undoubtedly be slut shamed the world over for the fact she'd had longer relationships with dung piles than she'd had with the father of her child. So many repercussions could come of this, so many things that didn't occur to her during her heat-fuelled lust but which now hit her in the cold light of day with the force of a dropped anvil. And yet, and yet, there's that eon-old craving to be a mother again, which overrides common sense. To breed and raise a soldier, an upstanding citizen of the Edge who exudes power and is proud to call her his mother - a war-child, her genetics imprinted onto Helovian soil for evermore.

So, with those conflicting emotions, she decides it's best just to not dwell on it. She forces all petty woman-problems to the back of her mind, and concentrates on acting as normal as she possibly can - although the I got the D glint in her eye might be something of a giveaway.

Thankfully, a bellow pierces the air which quickly draws her attention away from her mental state. Nyx! Despite the heavy irony of a man screaming her name at this particular moment, the silver is quick to heed the command of her king. She stumbles through fog-dotted land, eerily reminiscent of her fight with the same man who now beckons her. She still aches from her spar with the blood bay and the other ensuing 'physical exercise', but that is forgotten as her limbs automatically haul her into a gallop. Aside from a distinct tingling tenderness around her nethers, it's almost as though yesterday did not happen - as though it was just a figment of her overactive, horny imagination.

Finally she sees him, a frozen ghost on the horizon with two shadowy figures nearby. It's these figures that her eyes are dragged to, like moths to a flame. "Jesus," she mutters, furrowing an unamused brow at the trio. What's Mauja brought back with him, the bubonic fucking plague? Those boils. Like seeing them on Sergeant Spots himself wasn't bad enough, it seems he has spread the joy to at least one of the fillies. How kind. It also begs the question of what he's doing with two yearlings in the first place - they're a bit young to be the starting point of his harem. This musing, though, takes second fiddle to the walking medical bill that he's brought so casually into their home.

With a small stab of concern, she wonders if it is infectious, and feels herself tense slightly, unbidden. Her child...Could the disease harm it? But there may not BE a child, she reminds herself. But there may be. She's not stupid - she did the diddle, in heat, with a very virile young stallion. Add a dash of guilt on the side and she has the potent recipe for Offspring Pie. Again, she banishes the thoughts to a deep, dark corner of her mind. "What's going on?"