Post by Niamh Dunlevy on Mar 26, 2009 0:49:40 GMT
OOC - I already have enough threads in the Barracks area, so I decided to switch it up a little. Also, sorry if my post is a little off.
Country: Allied-held France, at an Allied field base.
Current Time: 20:14
Weather Conditions: Miserable, wet, and rainy. The mercury reads fifteen degrees Celsius, and a storm hammers the landscape. Travelling outside is dangerous - the ground is slippery, muddy and filled with puddles deeper then they seem, and there is thunder and lightning. It would be wise to remain indoors if you are off duty.
Grooskilly - Shelta for "punchy".
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A figure darted across the grounds of the makeshift Allied base, nearly slipping in the thick, oozing trap that was the ground. Sheets of rain thundered against her soaked poncho, and a branch of lightning lit up the sky. Thunder cracked in the night, the storm vicious that night, and the figure's heart was with the soldiers in the field. This would not be a good night for them if they were out in the field; heck, it hadn't been a good night for her.
In the wet arms of this she-figure, something squirmed and kicked, making a tiny squeal as thunder rumbled once more. In a language that sounded vaguely Irish, the figure comforted his thing, one hand gently stroking the creature's neck. What sounded like a mare's nicker came from the she-figure, and the thing settled slightly. If one could see her face, they would see the figure smiling, that same face's eyes looking upward at the nearest building. It wasn't the best place for her live cargo, but it would have to do, just until the thunderstorm passed.
With teeth gritted, she sprinted through the mud, slipping one time and falling into a puddle. The thing in her arms squealed in fright, kicking again, but the she-figure simply staggered to her feet. She began to run again, moving as stealthily as possible, just in case anyone was nearby. Trouble would come if someone found her bringing the thing into the Officer's Mess...especially if that someone was a certain Section Leader named Sally Fell. Thankfully, no one seemed to see her, and better yet, the Officer's Mess's back door was unlocked; she could go inside without making a ruckus.
As soon as she had the door open, she slid in, and quickly shut it behind her, locking it with the keys she had. The poncho's hood came off, and another bolt of lightning lit up the back room, revealing the figure to be nothing more then a Miss Niamh Mairi Dunlevy. Whatever was in her arms was gently lowered onto the floor, the thin, soaked sheet wrapped around it pulled out with a quick tug. Where a squirming bundle had once been, a young foal now was, no more then two or three weeks old. A bloody, dirty gash ran down its right shoulder and leg, and it was emaciated, eyes bulging with fear. It tried to stand, but slipped, its back legs kicking out furiously.
"T'ere t'ere," said Niamh, "no reason tho worry, liththle one. No one's comin' in 'ere at t'is time o' day - it's bloody rainin' outh. Everyone's in t'eir barracks, mosth likely, so justh be calm."
The foal snorted, ears swiveling, a bushy little tail swinging back and forth. Its pelt was covered in mud, hiding its true colour, although Niamh guessed it to be something with black or other dark colouration. From what Niamh could tell, it was a colt, and not used to or uncomfortable with human contact. Either he had been born feral, had not been socialized by his owners, or he had been abused. He was also a spirited little thing, with a good kick for a horse his age. Because of that, Niamh had fondly called him "Grooskilly", after an appropriate word in Shelta.
"Now, justh you come o'er 'ere..." murmured Niamh, gently picking up the foal again. Grooskilly squirmed and began kicking again, but Niamh gently murmured Shelta in his ear, her fingers working bits of mud out of her charge's tiny mane. Gradually, Grooskilly calmed down, and the Pavee slowly moved him over to a messy pile of empty sacks. Easing him down onto the sacks, Niamh patted Grooskilly on the head, then stood back up again.
"Sthay here, Grooskilly; I'm goin' tho warm you up some food. Keep quieth now, boy."
The Pavee turned, and made her way to the door that led into the kitchens. Grooskilly whinnied, frightened, attempting to stand again and bolt for the nearest exit. This prompted Niamh to turn around and return to him, comforting the foal as best she could. Once he quieted, the Pavee quickly headed toward the kitchen, recalling a formula for baby foals her father had taught her.
Hopefully, no one would walk in.
Country: Allied-held France, at an Allied field base.
Current Time: 20:14
Weather Conditions: Miserable, wet, and rainy. The mercury reads fifteen degrees Celsius, and a storm hammers the landscape. Travelling outside is dangerous - the ground is slippery, muddy and filled with puddles deeper then they seem, and there is thunder and lightning. It would be wise to remain indoors if you are off duty.
Grooskilly - Shelta for "punchy".
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
A figure darted across the grounds of the makeshift Allied base, nearly slipping in the thick, oozing trap that was the ground. Sheets of rain thundered against her soaked poncho, and a branch of lightning lit up the sky. Thunder cracked in the night, the storm vicious that night, and the figure's heart was with the soldiers in the field. This would not be a good night for them if they were out in the field; heck, it hadn't been a good night for her.
In the wet arms of this she-figure, something squirmed and kicked, making a tiny squeal as thunder rumbled once more. In a language that sounded vaguely Irish, the figure comforted his thing, one hand gently stroking the creature's neck. What sounded like a mare's nicker came from the she-figure, and the thing settled slightly. If one could see her face, they would see the figure smiling, that same face's eyes looking upward at the nearest building. It wasn't the best place for her live cargo, but it would have to do, just until the thunderstorm passed.
With teeth gritted, she sprinted through the mud, slipping one time and falling into a puddle. The thing in her arms squealed in fright, kicking again, but the she-figure simply staggered to her feet. She began to run again, moving as stealthily as possible, just in case anyone was nearby. Trouble would come if someone found her bringing the thing into the Officer's Mess...especially if that someone was a certain Section Leader named Sally Fell. Thankfully, no one seemed to see her, and better yet, the Officer's Mess's back door was unlocked; she could go inside without making a ruckus.
As soon as she had the door open, she slid in, and quickly shut it behind her, locking it with the keys she had. The poncho's hood came off, and another bolt of lightning lit up the back room, revealing the figure to be nothing more then a Miss Niamh Mairi Dunlevy. Whatever was in her arms was gently lowered onto the floor, the thin, soaked sheet wrapped around it pulled out with a quick tug. Where a squirming bundle had once been, a young foal now was, no more then two or three weeks old. A bloody, dirty gash ran down its right shoulder and leg, and it was emaciated, eyes bulging with fear. It tried to stand, but slipped, its back legs kicking out furiously.
"T'ere t'ere," said Niamh, "no reason tho worry, liththle one. No one's comin' in 'ere at t'is time o' day - it's bloody rainin' outh. Everyone's in t'eir barracks, mosth likely, so justh be calm."
The foal snorted, ears swiveling, a bushy little tail swinging back and forth. Its pelt was covered in mud, hiding its true colour, although Niamh guessed it to be something with black or other dark colouration. From what Niamh could tell, it was a colt, and not used to or uncomfortable with human contact. Either he had been born feral, had not been socialized by his owners, or he had been abused. He was also a spirited little thing, with a good kick for a horse his age. Because of that, Niamh had fondly called him "Grooskilly", after an appropriate word in Shelta.
"Now, justh you come o'er 'ere..." murmured Niamh, gently picking up the foal again. Grooskilly squirmed and began kicking again, but Niamh gently murmured Shelta in his ear, her fingers working bits of mud out of her charge's tiny mane. Gradually, Grooskilly calmed down, and the Pavee slowly moved him over to a messy pile of empty sacks. Easing him down onto the sacks, Niamh patted Grooskilly on the head, then stood back up again.
"Sthay here, Grooskilly; I'm goin' tho warm you up some food. Keep quieth now, boy."
The Pavee turned, and made her way to the door that led into the kitchens. Grooskilly whinnied, frightened, attempting to stand again and bolt for the nearest exit. This prompted Niamh to turn around and return to him, comforting the foal as best she could. Once he quieted, the Pavee quickly headed toward the kitchen, recalling a formula for baby foals her father had taught her.
Hopefully, no one would walk in.