To say Nyimara was pleased would have been an understatement. Nyi was ecstatic. Though she had heard him pacing nervously back and forth through the knee deep grasses. She had paid him no mind at the time because well let's face it, when your trying to push a living being from your body, there is no where else your mind can be except trying not to let the screams of agony get too loud. Sigurd was not a small colt, at least not in comparison to some of the others she had seen. Small ears prick forward in curiosity as dark brown eyes gaze upon the colt with a renewed sense of admiration and adoration. He is beyond even her wildest dreams. Nyimara had always found herself imagining about the foal that grew inside her belly. Countless nights she remembers staring up at the starry night skies, counting each and wondering if the gods would bless her with a child that mirrored its father. But the colt's innocent blue eyes gazed up at her now... he is more than she could have ever hoped.

There is a warmth to her smile now. A warmth that does not belong to Bjorn. He has a smile of hers, one filled with passion and hunger, longing and lust. He caused her heart to thrum and her nostrils quiver with longing. His skin brushes against her now, the hairs along her spine alight with splendor as she pulls her gaze away from the child for a moment. For just a moment her dark eyes meet his own glacier blue, the same bright icy eyes that shine down in their son. It would seem that Bjorn too was pleased. There was not just the pleasure of a new father in his eyes now. Of that she had seen in the eyes of her own father. There was pride sure, but looking at him now... she knew there was something more than that.

She leans against him, the warmth of his skin comforting in the weary pleasure that envelopes her like a crashing wave. "Never." she breathes. No she had never seen anything so perfect. This boy would never need to worry about being mistaken for another's son. Though the streaks of black and white interrupt the smokey blue color of his coat, there is no denying this son of Bjorn.

She watches as he attempts to stand, the determination written clearly in the glitter of his blue gaze. His tiny tail flicks back and forth as he surges upwards and then tumbles straight back down. Suddenly the mother in her rises. She tenses, her muscles taunt as she resists the urge to nudge him to his feet herself. No. She could not. He was the son of Bjorn and he had to see that strength in himself. Bjorn must see it.

The second attempt is more successful. A proud smile curves across her lips as he stumbles awkwardly to her side his small pink muzzle bumping against her chocolate-colored flesh until his lips found her swollen teets. There was a sense of relief that washes over her now. It was an odd sensation, the feeling of the foal's lips upon her teats, the sensation of nourishing milk as it flows into his mouth. It was weird. But it was a good weird. That much she decided as her proudly arched neck bends to let ash dusted lips brush tenderly against the small smokey colored flank. "What should we name him?" she asks, unable to draw her gaze away from him... her perfect little miracle.