I Seem to Have Misplaced My Yearling, Again

As the veil of promised evening drew ever deeper along their beach, and while the rain still beat steadily with no hint of respite, Eira felt the stinging pinch of cold in her malformed joints. Her step grew a little slower, stiffer over time and while she stumbled often her wings, savagely butchered, and incapable of flight, spread some to balance her bumbling body as it went. There came a small sound within the ear that rested back, a soft murmur so sweet and fine, that a smile was lured across her lips. “Little Fay,” her mind whispered fondly, warmly, as the tiny Eriucla stirred from sleep. There was a spot within the filly’s downy, warm ear that (if tilted backwards), provided a safe shelter from both the wind and the rain, and this is where she had been since that awful sneeze. Only very occasionally did Eira forget that she was there and pitch the rebellious ear which hid her forward from its new, necessary stance. Some distance out to sea, the sky began to growl, and the orphan paused and turned, seeking the eye of formidable-looking Roscorro. “Storm…” her thoughts bled imploringly, leaking concern through her thin, sickly features and as though to reiterate her meaning (though silent had been her voice), she glanced nervously by the stew of wind tossed water and the grim, black clouds which seemed to blend down through it. Eira wondered if the giant knew of the cave beneath the cliffs - where great walls of glass allowed them rare insight into the lives of those who dwelled beneath the waves. So too, however, did she worry for the lost: Vynter and this other, for the weather, was turning now quickly, and the wild flurry flung suddenly against them, whipped her silken tresses into frenzied animation. They would need to shelter soon or face the storm-surge tide.

Lines | Colouring