What happened here ?
You decide ^^
Feel free to write a story about this scene on the commentary section. The most voted remark will be the canon story for this scene. Good luck!
THE RULES remain the same: No enfing foals please, thank you.
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Poor mummah and babbehs
Not much of an story, but here it goes:
The mother is taken to a brood mother due to her white color. Often bred over and over, made to care for her foals regardless of her legless state. Living a live of basically being abused by her own kids to the point she just break and let it happen. Being called whatever they want, seeing the broken disappointment in their eyes as she isn’t able to do much but lay there and see other mares care for her own kids.
It all happened on a faithful Winter morning in Detroit . A soon mummah was running through the streets when a gang shoot out erupted, eventually taking the lives of 56 members, and 4 legs of a nice little mare. She was immediately rushed to the emergency room and given top surgical procedures, but it was too late. She would never walk again.
Later down the line the mare, which the City of Detroit had dubbed “Supremacy Goddess”, gave birth to two little babbehs. They would grow up in comfort but one day they would question why their mama couldn’t hug them. One resorted to dancing to hopefully gain love, and one insulted his poor mother. Insulting Supremacy Goddess was an offense punishable by death in the most extreme ways.
The little colts death was broadcasted live all over the state of Michigan. A new stadium was erected in the middle of Lake Superior and the ceremony began. Supremacy Goddess and her remaining baby looked on in quiet horror as the colt as slowly tortured to death of the course of several weeks. Eventually, Goddess and the President dealt the final blow, crushing his skull.
Supremacy Goddess was elected President the next year before being violently overthrown. The revolutionaries used her and her now mature child as hostages against the military. Goddess and her child were recovered safely in exchange for the nuclear launch codes. The mare and her child lived happily in Cuba until the bombs fell, vaporizing them instantly. Such is life.
More.
“Now now, Isadora!” a voice called out. It was a very patient sounding voice. Patience tempered by annoyance. It was the voice of a man who had been pushed slightly too far. The stench of feces hung heavy on the air. A rather lithe man clomped as heavy as his little feet would clomp into the room. This caused great concern for Isadora.
The mare had experienced much hardship in her life, bouncing from home to the street, home to street so many times. She knew all too well what that loud stomping from daddeh meant. She wasn’t an especially bad fluffy, but she had one flaw.
She had the tendency to let herself take the blame for others…even when it was blatantly obvious that she couldn’t have done it. Daddeh stepped ever closer. Isadora stood up on her back legs, wobbling. “D-Daddeh! P…Pwease nu huwt babbehs…” she begged, tears in her eyes.
“Well!” the rat-faced man replied, crouching down. “Would you care to explain why there’s turds all over the room, and piss soaking into my floorboards?” he hissed, cocking his head. Isadora knew that her babies had done it. They were having so much fun in their saferoom that they couldn’t just stop playing with their bwockies an’ baww.
Isadora gulped.
“B…Babbehs nu make poopies! Isadowa nu’ can’ fine da wittabox!” she bluffed. The foals cowering behind her babies looked at eachother in slight confusion, but, did not protest. The rat-faced man’s greasy brow contorted into a glare. “You mean…after all of the times I had you watch that stupid goddamn DVD on how to use a litterbox 5 times?!” he said, his hands grabbing the roots of her mane.
“P-P-PWEASE!” Isadora complained. “BABBEH NU MAKE POOPIES ON DA FWOW!”
The rat-faced man brought his face inches away from her’s. He regretted it almost instantly as he caught a whiff of her breath. It reeked of rot. “After I WATCHED you use the litterbox?! And do you seriously mean to tell me that a fluffy of your size made such small messes?!” he growled.
Isadora closed her eyes for a moment, whimpering, as if to think of what to say next. The room was silent. Silent. Until a squeaky voice rang out. The blue-haired foal trotted out from behind its mother. The rat faced man turned his gaze towards it, as Isadora began to hyperventilate from the stress of it all.
“Got something to say, you little slimeball?”
The blue-haired foal puffed out his cheeks. “Bwue…Bwuebewwy see! Bwuebewwy see dummeh mummah make bad poopies on da fwow!” There was a pain in Isadora’s eyes now. A pain that was from more than just having her new owner screaming in her face. She quietly began to sob and cry to herself; a useful skill she developed while on the street.
“Stwawbewwy! Teww daddeh dat mummah make poopies on da fwow!”
The rat-faced man rolled his beady little eyes. “Come out, Strawberry.” Out of the three of them, she was definitely the man’s favorite. She was quiet and reserved. Never made a fuss about anything. Moments passed, and the foal walked out from behind her mother. She was sniffling.
“Aren’t you a good girl, hm?” the rat-faced man said, turning away from both Blueberry and Isadora. Strawberry was silent, but he could tell that hearing his praise made her happy, judging by how she leaned in for him to stroke her body with his finger. Her eyes were fixed to the floor.
“Now…be honest. Is what Blueberry said true?”
Strawberry was silent.
“T-Teww daddeh, dummeh sistew!” Blueberry squealed. Her eyes widened, knowing full well what her brother would do if she went against him. “…Yus…Stwawbewwy see mummah make poopies out da wittewbox…” she said. “Buh…buh mummah nu mean to make bad poopies! Mummah wan’ pway wif babbehs!” Her words provided little succor to her distraught mother.
The rat-faced man shook his head. “Even if it were true, that’s no excuse.”
Blueberry gulped, and Strawberry hid behind the stack of blocks she had made earlier in the afternoon as their daddeh hoisted and lifted Isadora. “Come along now, Isadora. I’m afraid it’s punishment time.” Isadora offered no resistance. The fact that her babies were safe was an ineffective salve to the wound that had been inflicted on her heart.
ohhhhhh poor Isadora, poor poor baby- oh i love her i love her-
She laid there, legless and forlorn, forced to listen to her foals antagonize her for love. She was desperate. She needs an out. Then she got an idea. The next feeding time, as her young foals nursed, she coiled her body around the suckling young, giving them the love they demanded.
