brora
The world had not been kind to the little filly. From the moment she had taken her first itsy bitsy gasp of air, she was doomed. Her dam recoiled at Brora's small, distasteful build. She wouldn't even count as an addition to the herd. All she would do is take up space. So, ordered by the lead mare, but followed through hapilly by her mother, Brora was to abandoned in the Wolve's Clearing; a spot infamous for it's inhabitants.
Tremors coursed through the little chocolate filly's body. Tradewinds from the coast pushed through her little frame and chilled her down to the bone. Brora took her final, exhausted steps, and then collpased into a soft bed of lichen. The smell soothed her, for she had always liked the sea, even if she had never been this close before. From atop a hill in her old home she could see it shining and glistening. Now, through clouded and heavy eyes, she could see it. And then she saw a wave of darkness.
name
brora
age
eight weeks
gender
female
breed
mustang
description
she is petite, but will fill out and grow strong. abandoned because of her size, brora is alone. still very young, she speaks nothing. very impressionable.
harem
.x.
offspring
.x.
chenoa.
Chenoa had spent her day chatting among the seabirds and her other coast dwelling friends, she swooped from one jagged perch to another, listening and watching the interactions of Orca Bay. It was not like most days, she rarely strayed from the Valley now, seeing as she had a legion to form. No, today was a break from the normal, an escape from the long strewn days of politics and business talk. Chenoa was a wise old bird, she had seen many grow from birth and on, its as if she’s lived a thousand lives. She could routinely be found at Pan’s side, but today she howled among the broken skeleton trees along the beach.
Their whispers were caught on the wind — Chenoa could hear them hackling about something down in the sand. The pelicans, annoying creatures, mostly out for themselves — or at least this particular group was. They joked about calling the vultures over just to watch, or telling one of the seals about the ‘free meal’, as they called it. ‘It’ being a filly, folded into a heap of lifeless chocolate and sand. Chenoa screeched as she barreled towards them, her smaller wingspan measly compared to theirs but the old bird managed to drive them away, their offended cackles echoing as she flapped off.
Her petite claws clutched the hot sand; grasping strands of sea weed draped over ridged rocks and chipped stones. The pale bird made her way towards the child, she remained standing in the stand until she saw a hint of movement, her body startled and she immediately spread her wings to flee, landing herself conveniently on a hanging branch above the orphan. “Oh child! What are you doing here all alone?” Chenoa’s voice was like a song, tones of motherly melodies and sugar-sweet notes. She was a kind old bird.
brora
Ripples of memory washed over her inner eye. The first thing she remembers is her mother's sweet face turned sour. Then, she couldn't interpret the faces made. She couldn't understand that the maternal warmth of love had vanished in a moment, and was replaced by a furious loathing. Her mother had expected a fine filly to be born to take her high place in the herd. But no; Mother Nature had befallen her mother's wishes and had born her a runt. A fragile, ugly, good-for-nothing wretch.
All the while Brora's dam cursed and raved, the little foal, still sticky from birth, wagged her adorable fluff of tail and shook her head, looking up at her mother from the downy grass.
The next few weeks were hell to Brora. For reasons unknown to her, she was barely fed, and if she lowered her plush-like mouth beneath her mother's flank, she was kicked and screamed at. It's a miracle she lived the 7 weeks she did before taken to the clearing and abandoned.
Now she lay crumpled in the grass, birds' caws and squawks all about her. They entered her sleeping head, but only meshed with the screams and hateful badgerings of her old herdmates. When they were suddenly interrupted, her body seemed to seep into the ground as she fell into a peaceful slumber.
...child....doing here?
A small groan pursed through her soft lips as she stirred, flicking her ears and stretching her spindle legs. Slowly, she opened a single eye, and gazed up at a unique creature in the sand close to her. The tone of the bird seemed to put her in a trance; a trance of satefy, comfort, trust. The small tuft of a tail began to wiggle, than wag. It was all she could muster.
chenoa.
The white bird startled at her movement, hopping backwards with her wings splayed outward. “Oh my!” She lept upward, wings spread, bringing herself to land on a low branch beside the small filly. Chenoa’s eyes where dark, unlike most ‘albino’ creatures have pink eyes, they slid softly over the bay child, her chocolate form swelling the pale bird’s marble eyes.
“Where is your mother?” Her sweet whisper tones alone were not enough to coax the child into comfort, this was apparent. Chenoa had dealt with orphans before, most suffering from their parent’s decision to join the war — not just up and leave them. Chenoa was almost confused……
Chenoa’s eyes lifted to watch a line of horses disappear into their dusty hide-away, slinking into the shadows. Her gaze slid back down to the foal, still unsure if she even spoke; the bird watched her anyways, slowly beginning to hum a soft soothing tone; her notes stripped of melancholy and misery, laced with spurts of loud but enlightening melodies.
brora
The white creature was so strange to Brora's eyes. She had seen Chenoa's kind before but never this light of color. It didn't matter now. The maternal crow comforted the abandoned and exhausted filly with her dark, warm eyes and cooing voice. At the bird's words, Brora just flicked an ear, twitched her soft nose, and wiggled her tail harder. She didn't know how to respond, didn't even know what Chenoa meant. Brora knew mother, but it wasn't a plesant word to her unlike other foals. She snorted softly at Chenoa, and soon a sickly cold feeling began to creep up Brora's legs. Whoever this crow was, she was hoping it wouldn't take her back to her...mother.
A jolt of fear pained her insides but it went short lived. Chenoa began to hum, and the small little filly couldn't take it. The fear subsided and she became calm again.
Suddenly, the tenderness of the crow gave Brora the energy to stand, so she did....very wobbily. Shifting her thin, spindly legs beneath her, and pushing up with her fores, her emaciated haunches rose, and then her chest, and finally her head. Swaying a bit, she looked at the crow, and baw'ed. Yes, baw'ed. She sounded like a pathetic little sheep, but she mustered it just for the kind crow who soothed her whole being. The first act of kindness she had ever recieved.
chenoa.
Chenoa watched — awe eyed at the filly, her eight week old body unfurled from his spindly strewn state, wobbly and decrepit, the child stood. Chenoa gasped as the heap of bay skin and sharp bones came to her feet, her eyes as full of the life her body lacked, Chenoa’s bright body ruffled, chirping a distressed sort of caw sound. “You must come with me, child!” Her wings stretched outward as she cooed to the girl, her eyes meeting her soft gaze — the bird’s soul wretched for the daughter, the daughter of the moon, her body swooping down to the filly’s toes, dainty head cocked sideways as she spoke gently. “Come with me baby — come with me moon-child, you will be safe, come.” She whispered to the girl, her tones guiding, maternal and smooth.
She lifted herself, her throat throwing out the familiar sound of a dove as it flies off, a purring coo sound, native to pigeons and doves — obviously now, a crow. She flew slowly, sure to keep perching, making sure the filly found her footing on the secluded narrow path to Lost Valley.