quinn.

Unwelcome, Quinn follows her.

He keeps his distance, not intending to actually breach the isolation she seeks. The espresso stallion is only curious; he has never been the type to care very much about mares in labor. They either make it, or they don’t. The child either makes it, or it doesn’t. Nothing Quinn himself can do to change the outcome.

Still, he follows.

He knows it is likely Nyimara is aware of his presence. Neither one of them fears the other, but there is a kind of newly-wed hesitancy between them; neither wants to risk the other’s wrath. They have yet to have their first fight. As the mahogany mare disappears into the shallow mouth of a canyon, Quinn halts.

He waits.

Hours pass. He can hear very little from the canyon, but the pitch of her voice when she coos at the child carries out faintly over the stone and sand. Quinn’s dark ears tick forward, and he begins to close the distance toward the cool mouth, taking this as his cue. The sigh of a faint breeze flutters out of the canyon, lifting a few strands of dark mane.

His hooves echo faintly against the stone as he enters, and finds Nyimara and her dark daughter tucked into a shallow dip in the wall. He whickers quietly as he halts several paces away. “Well, well,” he rumbles, sharp blue eyes sliding over the silver bay and her child. He is no less hungry for her in this state; she is perhaps even more beautiful darkened with sweat, with her ivory forelock plastered to her delicate brow. He couldn’t care less that the child in the dust beside her is not his. “Who have we here?”

stallion. spanish mustang mutt. 15.3hh. smoky black overo.