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Description
Warning, this drawing is huge, so feel free to zoom a bit in to get a better resolution. It also took me forever. ^^;
It’s another chapter of the neverending Story of Moorsavage, the feral green mare who was found by Stendhal in the forest and was “adopted” by him and his cousin. This happens after Illiterate started giving the green unicorn lessons in magic.
If you only wished to check out the drawing, then congrats! :D This is all you had to read. Feel free to fave it / comment on it, I appreciate it all!
If, instead, you enjoy reading, you can find the chapter this drawing illustrates here below. I hope it’s enjoyable and I thank you for being interested in my wonky tales. ^u^
“VOX” (or “FINDING A VOICE”)
If someone were to pass underneath the open kitchen window in that moment, they would have been greeted by a pleasant whistling. It was Stendhal, in a good mood despite the pile of dirty dishes still to wash.
It was his turn that day. And the day before. And the one before. Actually, when was the last time Fresca had done them? Oh, nevermind. His cousin was sweet enough to cook for the three of them almost every day, so they were even.
He tried to transition smoothly from Gymnopédie N°1 to Minuet in D Minor, messed up, shrugged: eh, it’s not like he had a paying audience anyway.
He reached for the towel to dry a ceramic bowl, but his hoof met with the wall. There was nothing there on the hook. He remembered: they had used the towel the previous evening, in the living room, after spilling some tea on the table. It was probably still there.
He sighed.
- Fresca - he called.
In the meantime, he put the bowl aside and started to scrub a copper pot. After a few seconds, since no one was replying, he called her again. He heard hoofsteps approaching. Thank goodness.
- Fresca, please, go get me the towel, will you? It should be on the table.
She didn’t reply. He imagined her giving him a condescending look and didn’t dare turn around.
-
My hooves are wet… I’ll leave hoofprints… Pretty please? – he quickly added.
-
Ok.
Stendhal froze in place. That was not Fresca’s voice. He turned around, but whoever had spoken was no longer there. He waited in a rearing position, too shocked to even put his front hooves back down. For a while, the only sound was the plic plic of waterdrops falling onto the tile floor. An increasing clip clop added to it, admittedly creating a better melody than the scarce one he was whistling until a moment ago.
A few seconds later, the green mare quietly entered the kitchen holding the towel in her mouth. She dropped it at Stendhal’s feet, since he was not taking it. She looked him in the eyes and then lowered her head to look at the puddles that were forming on the floor. At which sight she frowned and looked disappointed.
- Wet. – she commented, clearly annoyed that her all effort didn’t save the floor.
Stendhal’s eyes became the size and the shape of two tennis balls.
- F-… Fre-…Fresca?
He heard her yawn from the other side of the house.
-
Wha-aaat? - she replied in her singsong-tone.
-
Fresca, come here a second!
The yellow horse perceived urgency in his cousin’s voice. What was it this time? Another spider he was too scared to take outside? And to think he was the stallion of the house…
-
For the record, I was just about to take a nap. Hello, dear. – she greeted the green mare upon entering the room.
-
You may want to sit down for this, Frisk.
She tilted her head.
- Uh?
Stendhal went back on all fours to face the once feral horse. The green mare felt a bit uneasy, because she didn’t like being stared at. The stallion noticed it and tried to use a gentle tone.
- Could you repeat that?
Fresca’s pupils widened and she sat down, attentive. “I’m interested”, her body language spoke.
The green mare looked down, then tried to speak. She produced just one of her regular wheezes.
- What you said before, when I asked you that towel.
Another wheeze. The mare was starting to look discouraged.
Stendhal looked at Fresca.
- She spoke, I swear.
Then again at the green mare.
- You spoke, didn’t you?
She seemed about to nod, but then she changed her mind and opened her mouth instead.
- …yes.
It was impossible to tell which of the three horses in that kitchen was more incredulous.
-
You speak! – barked Stendhal.
-
She speaks! - squeaked Fresca.
-
I sp-… speak - stuttered the green mare, leaving the two other ponies looking at each other in disbelief, smiling like drunkards.
And that’s the story of how Moorsavage, the feral horse who grew up in a forest, eating roots and sleeping in mud, began rediscovering her civilized side, by finally starting to speak.
°°°The end (for now ;P)°°°
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