To hell and back Posted on May 19, 2022 at 08:06:30 PM by Dreadstag
Foaling was a dangerous thing for every mare who endured it; it was the only time in most mare’s lives that they were ever isolated from their families and the stallions that protected them. Anything could happen: Predators could attack, they could slip, fall, and never be heard from again. Of course, there was the possibility of a particularly challenging labor, which could very easily result in the death of the mother, and her foal, too… Yes, indeed, it was a very challenging time for the expectant.
Dreadstag would complicate it further.
He had been born on the isles, and his mother and her mother had lived and ruled right here. On these very shores that he stood upon, in fact. Once upon a time, his name had been known among the lost isles; but much like everything else, he and his name had faded from obscurity. He intended to change that, as the new moniker he’d taken after the loss of his lead mares: Dreadstag.
The truth was, the loss of Tequila was the beginning of his end. She’d died, and Dreadstag was devastated. So much so that he didn’t even fight for Rum, and that had been... Wrong of him. He wished he had the foresight. But at the time, he couldn’t even begin to fathom; and he likely would have been cruel to the mare, for she would have been a painful reminder, every day. He wonders about her -- if she’s alive, what her children are like. Does she damn his name? Does she even remember him?
It matters for naught.
His intention wasn’t to do anything more than explore Tinuvel, as he had as a yearling. Moving through the density of the trees felt like muscle memory, and the crispness of the cool spring air was a reminder of more pleasant times. But then?
He saw an opportunity.
Dreadstag was an ordinary stallion, and he behaved like one. So when he saw a lone mare, it didn’t matter that she had a foal in tow. It also didn’t matter that he recognized the glimpse of her milky eyes (or, at least, one of them). As far as the Dreadstag was concerned, they were one in the same, for his left had been useless since the day of his birth. Although the horrible claw marks he wears upon his face tells a story of their own. So he saw no qualms with approaching at a brisk pace. Undoubtedly, she’d hear and feel the vibrations in the rocky ground of each trotted step, long before his teeth had the opportunity to reach her. If she allowed it? The Dreadstag absolutely would snap his teeth at her flank. The bite meant business, but it was by no means hard enough to break her skin.
Although he said nothing, she would easily get the sense that the warmth of his form closing in on her that he was trying to get her to run -- it doesn’t matter where. He can otherwise guide her, and the little one who tailed her.