Roses are Red [R]

[Rivre]

Spring came in hiccups to the lower-country, bursts of colour and warmth along with the dribble of snow and timber shaly glades - bark strewn hither and dither from the reckless winds. The Currwong would call endlessly, lonesome and wise from it's perch in the leafy canopy, a wombat stir the bud of a bowing wattle plant, the gang gangs chatter of a new king. All of this the fire red mare heard, and yet she did not care to investigate. She lay, exhausted, beneath the sheltering gums, a copse of silver barks on the open flat, the brilliance of her hide dulled by sweat and the jagged shadows. And yet her shadow was crippled by another unsteady form - a foal. The colt bore the red chestnut of his dam, leggy and fine-looking, but also the hint of the night and shadow promised by his father in his sooty mane, hooves reaching out across the snowgrass in an attempt to pull himself up. Arrellah nosed gently at his flank, hooking her muzzle under his stomach so that she could nudge him to a stand. For a moment he wobbled, and then he stood.

Everything was so blurry, even the shutters that kept closing over his eyes could not keep the smudges away for more than a moment. Something touched his flank again, and common sense forgot to lend him explanation, a startled snort unbalancing his tiny hoofed feet as he toppled towards a bruising.

Perhaps this was not the way to go about it, if maybe she stood, it would be wiser and easier to teach this young'un to walk. However, all of the night previous she had traveled, far enough away to birth this colt from her herd, and the sweat of her hide was enough to tell that she was spent. Head flung up, she hauled herself to a stand-still, a long drawn-out sigh escaping her as she moved. The snowgrass was springy here, but not as wonderful as what awaited on the open glade, and Arrellah longed to roll the grime from her coat, to shine again and drink her fill. Checking that the coast was clear, she strode out into the sunlight, her usual pride still displayed in her high-stepping walk, but her attention trained on the foal behind of her, in the shadows. "I will name you Talgan," she called, gliding to a halt with about as much grace as she could muster, "for beauty and for courage. Come!"

His mother was leaving him! A pitiful whinny coughed it's way into existence, followed by another startled snort as he tried to untie his tangled legs. After a moment, he stopped, having heaved himself around to face his dam's retreating figure, hearing her call as if she stood next to him, but with an expression that could have been read as annoyance. He called again, I'm coming! But still she stood away from him. What had she done to help him up the first time? Was it front legs first or back? He would try the front. Forelegs flung forwards, he scrabbled at the snowgrass stems, pulling himself forwards with enough momentum to unwind his hind legs also, and to stand. He'd done it! With a mocking whinny he ran towards her shinning self - well no, he fell again, having tried to go too fast too quickly, but he soon got himself back up.

By the time he reached her side, having finally trotted out to meet her with about as much poise as a wombat, Arrellah had already rolled the sweat and mud from her now glossy hide, dropping her head to graze. Talgan snuffled along the ground beside her, but did not snatch up the stems as greedily as she did, bored quickly and instead seeking her milk. This was her first in the ways of offspring, and she could not help denying his obvious beauty, hence his name, and she busied herself imagining his father's pride.

OOC: Open to mares and foals only.