Halted mid-strike, tension still hangs in the air. Zjeena regards this stranger's silvered face through the darkness. Her eyes are finally adjusting to the shadows of the forest. He advances upon her, perhaps angered by her demand, and Zjeena is still on edge enough to respond. Her ears pin tighter under her mane and she raises her head to match her stance to his. Her eyes narrow in warning. He can attempt to take her out, but she won't go down without a fight. Zjeena has been through enough in her short life, that threats from this foreigner don't scare her one bit.
Thankfully, it doesn't come to that. The stallion's expression falters back to confusion, before softening to an expression almost pleasant. One phrase in particular stands out among the rest. "Ég er Sköll," None of those words sound familiar in the least, but the rhythm of speech and the welcome nod that follows give the phrase meaning. The mare's ears finally find their way out of her mane. They focus forward, but turn nervously, listening for any approaching sounds of war. "I'm Zjeena." She answers. "Ég er Zjeena." She attempts to repeat back in his native tongue, but a clumsy pronunciation betrays her unfamiliarity with the language.
Sköll, as she now knows him, steps closer, his expression remorseful. He mutters something she doesn't understand and his eyes linger on her bloodied shoulder. Zjeena's skin twitches under his heavy gaze, and as his eyes rise to search hers, she is caught in the icy void of his stare. Where did he come from and why is he here?