Goennec Pen #: #1.
Original Name: Archangel.
Later Name: Rumor.
Native Name: Black Fox.
How would you use him:Obviously he would be a beloved character of mine; like all Goennecs I have previously adopted, he will be taken good care of and get art. I have begun writing stories with all of my Goeys interacting and I have the perfect slot saved for him already that will work amazingly; I have plans to make him Queen's sister's lover, which will peeve Queen off very much. She hates her family, especially any and all reminder of her sibling, and having her mate following her around would make her highly temperamental.
I have a site set up specifically just for my Goennecs and you know that they get ton of attention. I will never 'forget' a Goey, and I hope to write more stories with them when school finally lets out. I have been working on a ton of one shots involving them, but I want to literally write notebooks with their adventures. Foxy will be my last one to adopt for a while hopefully; the last one I am really searching for is Queen's sister. With the ones I have now, I have a wonderful setting to tell a breath-taking story, and he will put me one step closer to that goal.
I will treasure him and never let anything put him in jeopardy. I have never broken rules before about Goennecs and I would not with him. I am excited even thinking about introducing him to the roleplay, especially with the Siv as I imagine he would be a particularly sought after ram but continually turn down the does that approached him, his memories still lingering on Fade [Queen's sister]. He is a perfect character and would fit right into my heart along with the other Goennecs I have. <3
Backstory:He lifted his proud head to the heavens and grinned. The expression pulled his lean facial features into something harsh and uncontrolled, and for a second he seemed wild with glee. His herd mulled beneath him, polished into standard format and gleaming coats. He had already done the culling for this season and every tiny, playful kid that played with their mother's sweeping tails or their fellow foals was healthy and perfectly beautiful.
Beside him, his queen stood. She was a magnificent female, her fur groomed into beautiful and intricate patterns, her stomach swollen with the foal she still carried. Although it was late into the season, it was always traditional for the lead female of this herd to have her single child in late spring, when all the others that had been delivered were months old.
Her gaze twinkled when she looked to her mate and she smiled softly. Her influence there immediately seemed to take away the cruelty her mate possessed for his slender muscles relaxed and he turned to lay his chin across her shoulders, draping his throat there. She was the prettiest doe he had ever seen, much more beautiful then the females below that had carried his offspring this year and successfully had them. He did not regret meeting her. She reined in his temper in a way that no other weak-kneed female would be capable of doing.
For a while, they stand atop the crumbling cliff and merely snuggle, finding a certain solace in the other that they can discover no where else. For the male and the female creatures, stripped of names as the generations pass, they are in heaven.
Eight months later, I am born.
I am a strong little ram, and my sire takes instant pride in me. He is at my mother's side when I arrive, as custom states. I sometimes trick myself into remembering how cold it was inside his shadow.
For a while, I do not recognize him as my father. My mother is the only person I see and although I am constantly ridiculed by the older males [another ancient ritual], I mainly ignore them. I know my strength, and I do not doubt my patience. One night they will regret being so cruel to me. So I bide my time and grow, filling out my form, always staying near my dam. She protects me when my father loses his roaring temper and blames all of his problems and me; she will not let him kill me the day he threatens it.
He's jealous, just a jealous fool. He finally had a baby with his mate and when she chose me over him he did not appreciate it. Over dinner, when we dine and pretend we are the happy family we're not, he glares at my over the long shoots of tender grasses. I do not meet his gaze, never ever. The challenge would not let me live.
When migration season arrives I kick up my heels for the long journey. I'm excited to be moving; I'm barely on the fringe of one year old and all of the others are older then me. Some of the females waddle past with enormous stomachs pulled to impossible girths, once again burdened with more foals. My father is a promiscuous ram, as I suppose he should be. Custom dictates it, after all. Some nights when my mother cracks her eye halfway open and watches his slip away to the herd females, I know she hates the old religion.
Eventually a wide gap has come between them, and my father calls it me. He no longer addresses me; he does not spend the nights with my mother any longer. She is not pregnant this season, and she knows deep in her heart she will never be. It brings us closer together; and am her one and only, and I cannot be replaced. My sire sees this and it enrages him further that I dare be bold enough to steal her away. By now, I am strong and lean. I have gotten his form from the bloodlines, more so then the other rams he has produced. I am tall and regal. My pale golden coat fades into the brilliant white mane that lines my spine. I will not be reduced to something submissive below him.
The herd is gathered together to leave and the enormous population of it mills around. Some of the females chomp on the grass underfoot, gossiping to the others, spreading rumors and reputations as they do every day. I am well-known down here, for when my father dies I will become the leader of the herd. Someday soon, I'll have to be the father of all of these scurrying foals. The thought both scares and angers me. I hate being controlled by his d*mned religion.
My mother is up on the hilltop gathering some of her favorite seeds and tucking them carefully into the flow of her mane. I am about a mile away from her and somehow, my father sees this. He's getting old, but he has not lost his spitfire personality. He comes over to me, contagious in his aggression, and butts his forehead against my shoulder to push me out of the circle of does that stand around me.
"Son. May I have a minute...?" His voice lingers on possessive but he does not push it. He waits and watches me with his daring eyes, just waiting for me to deny him and start a wildfire rumor to spread through the herd. Stubbornly, I do not give him the satisfaction. For now, I'm not afraid of losing my life.
"Sure, Father." I exaggerate the title he never should be called by and his flanks twitched like he had a bug bite there. I was certain that I was that flea he was thinking of. I stepped out of the herd, walking straight to the tree line. Our conversation could not carry to their eyes, something I also knew he would not like. He had a reputation to keep in the herd and I was not helping him.
But he does not protest and comes to stand beside him. His barreled chest heaves with the deep breaths he takes; I can barely hear the rattle of sickness in his throat. He is no longer healthy, is losing the grace of his age. When a triumphant grin spreads across my mouth, he realizes that I know and he glares.
My tone is biting now, verging on cruel. I do not let up my sadistic barrage. I hate my father, and I am sure by now that he has come to terms with losing the one child he ever cared about. Maybe one day he’ll regret how he treated me. “You are going to be losing control of the herd soon, old man. What are you going to do then?”
His breath wheezes through his constricted throat and he snorts, shaking his horned head. “Don’t tempt me, boy.” He growls, and I recognize that he still sees me as some little child. Although I am a handsome and adult male, I do not correct him. Despite him hating me, he is still my father, and there are lines that I do not cross, not yet anyway.
I slowly nod my head and over his shoulder spot my mother galloping down the hill. She has noticed my father standing with me in the looming darkness of the trees and she worries so much that he will hurt me when she isn’t watching. He does not hear her approaching foot steps and instead focuses on me with burning eyes. “Back off your mother. She will be mine one more time before I die, kid.” He threatens, and as he leans in closer to make his threat clear, my mother’s merciless bite lands straight on his haunch.
He starts, jumping out of the way, shaking loose from her grasp with huge eyes. It is not permitted to hurt the alpha male, no matter what he is doing, yet she stands in front of me with her petite horns curved towards him and a wicked evil look darkening her beautiful face. “Get away from my son.” She snarls, a feral sound low in her throat. Slowly, he begins to retreat from her. He is still in love with her, even after all these years, even after the fact that she no longer even cares. She has just threatened our leader, but he does not pursue her punishment. He loves her too much to watch her be broken and hurt.
The weeks after that are much easier. For the most part, my father gives me a wide berth and comes nowhere near me, not wanting to tempt the vengeance of my vindictive dam. I had figured it had not been possible, but impossibly enough we somehow grow closer still. She never leaves my side now unless I will it of her; she serves as my emotional buffer and physical bodyguard from the sire who so wants to kill me.
The spring grazing land is amazingly perfect. The hills roll out like velvet ripples across the ground and small, full streams wind their cursive paths along it. They seem to split the paradise in six different directions, leaving patterns behind that, from where the herd and I stand, look like an interesting quilt image.
Beside me my mother stands, and I carefully turn and guide her down the sloping hill. My touch is gentle on her bare shoulder; as the days have gone on a progressive disease has been eating at her. The local healer of the herd prescribed it to me as being something called “arthritis”; he said it was common in the humans. Evidently it has been crippling her joints for years but she always ignored the pain, probably in favor of me. For now, it is finally my turn to pay back all that my mother has given up for me.
The days pass in blurred summer celebration. The seasons change but the weather remains perfect; I watch from a distance as my father finally starts succumbing to his disease. He has something much different from my dam, but it is weakening him and every morning that I have the displeasure of seeing him once again, I watch the old fool totter around on sluggish hooves and bleat to strangers in the pale light.
Late in the summer season I wake to a strange feeling clutching my heart. For a moment I do not stir for the emotion is unfamiliar and I bitterly swallow it, confused as to what has seized me so. When I open my pale eyes and peer around, I see my mother lying inches from me as she does every night. For motionless seconds, I feel as though nothing is wrong. A cheerful smile pulls my mouth up and I nuzzle into her throat. “Good morning, mother.” I greet as I do every dawning hour and rise to my feet, stretching out along the ground.
When I hear no reply I glance towards her, confused. She always gives me some sort of response, whether it is a sleeping grunt or a lilting laugh. I crouch down near her and touch my nose to her own, nauseous when I realize that it is as cold as death. I frantically bury my face into her chin but I cannot catch even a glimmer of her receding pulse. She is dead.
I throw my head back with a bone-chilling wail, and across the herd’s land, I am echoed by the servant who has just found my father dead in his sleep.
The travel back is hard this time around.
I am two years old when it is time to officially return, and I am the leader of the herd. I do not control the harem as my father does; I do not cull the male foals he does not wish to keep and cultivate. I gave the does free range to do whatever they will and now they follow me only out of a certain degree of respect and no more. I have made friends within their ranks but no lovers; I carry no children below me in my bloodline despite how many ewes are all too happy to try and win my affection.
Walking up to the same cresting hill where I was, one day long ago, waiting for my mother brings an aching case of déjà vu. I will fiercely for her to return but when all I get back is the softest whisper of the winds, I let it go. I have never believed in the religious deities my sire pressed on the herd and as his legend fades, so too does the hold the worshippers had.
I am about to herald my herd down when I see, out of the corner of my eye, movement. I blink, caught off guard, as I recognize it as an approaching herd. They are half as strong as we are, filled in mainly through competing bucks who even as they travel playfully fight, showing off sinewy muscles and curved bodies to begin attracting their does for Siv.
[WIP]
