Common
Force-claiming is allowed here once a week per character, as is blocking force-claims by the Peak/Lagoon (as a whole) once a week. Rollover is on Sundays.
Posted on July 5, 2020 at 11:37:43 PM by Solomon
Solomon
To be fair, he should have forseen her reaction. Still, his eyes widen with surprise at the vehemence with which she shouts at him and his dark rimmed ears pin. Normally such disobedience would raise his ire and spur him to correct it by whatever means necessary, but this circumstance is unique and he hesitates. Solomon stills, willing her to take her grief out on him as he would, if it were him.
Grief is an emotion he does not deal with often or well, and lashing out is often his outlet.
It did not play a formative role in his young years, for in his father's eyes, every loss was a hole to be filled. If you lost a mare, you fought for another. When children died, allies left, and so on, you simply found something or someone to take its place. Solomon's lack of ability to process grief, to accept the loss, often ended up leading him into further trouble as he struggled to process the unfamiliar emotions. Solomon does not know how to comfort a grieving mother and had gambled with the idea that the possibility of adopting another, a child without a mother, would soothe her. He had hoped that dangling Rehoboam's need before her would motivate her to move on, for even he could see that no amount of wailing would reinvigorate the body. It had been a bad gamble, but he had made it nonetheless.
Her teeth score his shoulder but he remains still, his gaze flashing with the kaleidoscope of thoughts that tumble through them. Anger burns there, but so does the niggling doubt that he may have acted too hastily. His skin twitches as blood trickles, but he does not move until she slips past him, darting back to the prone figure of her newborn foal. Seeing her like that, defiant and grief-stricken but still defending the still form is what softens him. She is fierce, and even though he is a threat to her, she refuses to back down. The tense posture of his neck relaxes as she makes her case. He is not quite apologetic, not yet, but he does remain quiet as she shouts at him.
Pride wars with compassion, but ultimately loses and he turns, wordlessly from her to find a place to bury the mare's still daughter. He does not wander far, still somewhat afraid that she will flee from him if given half a chance. Selecting a spot is a sobering moment for him, and he stands unprepared for the what-ifs that plague him as he does so. What if the spotted mare had been his? And the child his own?
He would hope to never leave the mother of his child unguarded, but he knows that he has done exactly that in the past. Himena, Baklava, Radha. Even Banshee, although his fierce chestnut mare had eventually come to join him of her own accord. Their names scroll through his mind, tense with the possibility that they might have faced similar circumstances. Together they had created life, and then he had parted ways with them, trusting that a quirk of fate would somehow ensure they were raised with the same care and attention he bestowed upon the foals in the Cove. Had someone been there to take care of them? To bury their child if it, too, had been born quiet and still?
He chooses a spot that is close, protected by a youngish tree, it's roots not yet defined enough to prevent his blunt hooves from carving a place for the child to rest. It exists far enough from the edge of a small copse of trees that the sun may shine upon it morning and night, and space exists for the wildflowers of the Crossing to yet gather around. Solomon pauses before he begins, his gaze searching for that of the spotted mare to see if she approved of the position, but does not search her face for long.
Against his better judgment, Solomon turns to the task at hand and begins to rip through the soil beneath his hooves. By the time he has finished, sweat gathers along his neck and chest, and his breath is jagged with the exertion. For a moment he stands at the grave, the what-ifs and could have beens running through his mind like a record player on loop, leaving him far soberer now than he had been upon approach. He stares at the grave and the finality of what it represents for a long moment before lifting a forehoof to strike at the tree trunk, forever scarring the young bark to identify the spot. Finally, he turns back to the mare, his voice guarded. In truth, he expects more vitriol from her, and might still deserve it, but he would not sick his head between her feet to separate mare from child again.
"Do you want to, or should I?" He says at last, his voice guardedly neutral but far gentler than before, against his better judgment. Irritatingly, he feels as though he should defend himself against her ire, to point out that he had not done so out of malice, but he does not. If she truly meant to ignore his request for help, she would not have told him to start digging.
Grief is an emotion he does not deal with often or well, and lashing out is often his outlet.
It did not play a formative role in his young years, for in his father's eyes, every loss was a hole to be filled. If you lost a mare, you fought for another. When children died, allies left, and so on, you simply found something or someone to take its place. Solomon's lack of ability to process grief, to accept the loss, often ended up leading him into further trouble as he struggled to process the unfamiliar emotions. Solomon does not know how to comfort a grieving mother and had gambled with the idea that the possibility of adopting another, a child without a mother, would soothe her. He had hoped that dangling Rehoboam's need before her would motivate her to move on, for even he could see that no amount of wailing would reinvigorate the body. It had been a bad gamble, but he had made it nonetheless.
Her teeth score his shoulder but he remains still, his gaze flashing with the kaleidoscope of thoughts that tumble through them. Anger burns there, but so does the niggling doubt that he may have acted too hastily. His skin twitches as blood trickles, but he does not move until she slips past him, darting back to the prone figure of her newborn foal. Seeing her like that, defiant and grief-stricken but still defending the still form is what softens him. She is fierce, and even though he is a threat to her, she refuses to back down. The tense posture of his neck relaxes as she makes her case. He is not quite apologetic, not yet, but he does remain quiet as she shouts at him.
Pride wars with compassion, but ultimately loses and he turns, wordlessly from her to find a place to bury the mare's still daughter. He does not wander far, still somewhat afraid that she will flee from him if given half a chance. Selecting a spot is a sobering moment for him, and he stands unprepared for the what-ifs that plague him as he does so. What if the spotted mare had been his? And the child his own?
He would hope to never leave the mother of his child unguarded, but he knows that he has done exactly that in the past. Himena, Baklava, Radha. Even Banshee, although his fierce chestnut mare had eventually come to join him of her own accord. Their names scroll through his mind, tense with the possibility that they might have faced similar circumstances. Together they had created life, and then he had parted ways with them, trusting that a quirk of fate would somehow ensure they were raised with the same care and attention he bestowed upon the foals in the Cove. Had someone been there to take care of them? To bury their child if it, too, had been born quiet and still?
He chooses a spot that is close, protected by a youngish tree, it's roots not yet defined enough to prevent his blunt hooves from carving a place for the child to rest. It exists far enough from the edge of a small copse of trees that the sun may shine upon it morning and night, and space exists for the wildflowers of the Crossing to yet gather around. Solomon pauses before he begins, his gaze searching for that of the spotted mare to see if she approved of the position, but does not search her face for long.
Against his better judgment, Solomon turns to the task at hand and begins to rip through the soil beneath his hooves. By the time he has finished, sweat gathers along his neck and chest, and his breath is jagged with the exertion. For a moment he stands at the grave, the what-ifs and could have beens running through his mind like a record player on loop, leaving him far soberer now than he had been upon approach. He stares at the grave and the finality of what it represents for a long moment before lifting a forehoof to strike at the tree trunk, forever scarring the young bark to identify the spot. Finally, he turns back to the mare, his voice guarded. In truth, he expects more vitriol from her, and might still deserve it, but he would not sick his head between her feet to separate mare from child again.
"Do you want to, or should I?" He says at last, his voice guardedly neutral but far gentler than before, against his better judgment. Irritatingly, he feels as though he should defend himself against her ire, to point out that he had not done so out of malice, but he does not. If she truly meant to ignore his request for help, she would not have told him to start digging.
Replies:
- don’t be like the rest of them, darling - By EVE July 6, 2020 at 01:53:43 AM
- comfort me with apples, for i am sick of love - By Solomon July 8, 2020 at 06:43:23 AM
- give up forever to touch you - By Iris July 9, 2020 at 06:20:09 AM
- comfort me with apples, for i am sick of love - By Solomon July 8, 2020 at 06:43:23 AM
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