Desert

Sybelle

The tiny filly was woken by the tickling of whiskers across her fuzzy, splayed ears. Her head wobbled weakly upward, and her eyes opened wide and blue until the big shadow above her shifted and the sun fell over her face once again. She screwed her eyes back shut, and let out a small cry, but soon the shadow returned. Sybelle squinted at it, determining through sight and scent that this was not her mother, and she gave a little sniff of disapproval.

Her apprehension did not last long. It didn’t really matter that this wasn’t her mother; at least it was someone. The gentle touch on her ears was a drop of water to a withered flower. Before she could even register that this was a great and aching need, the source of the touch had returned, wrapping alongside her, pressing warmth into her dry and dusty side. Sybelle sat frozen for a moment, unsure of what was happening, before turning to bury her face into the shoulder of the person next to her. His voice rumbled against the flat plane of her face, soothing her almost immediately into sleep. She could smell no milk on him, but at this point, her stomach had grumbled itself into silence anyway. Her body felt so frail and hollow that she didn’t think any amount of milk could fill her up ever.

Still, the touch of another gave her strength in a different way. Sybelle was not aware of it, but she was stubborn beneath the frail shell of her body; the brittle casing of her ribs only concealed an iron creature beneath. She whimpered against the sable fur of her Not-Mother, and then, she began to squirm, trying to stand.

“speech”

all you wanted was a little taste

wont let a single sinew go to waste