Þoka scowls at his response. “If they’re so fickle why pay them any heed at all? Gods like that don’t care if you behave yourself or throw a tantrum; they’ll do what they want, when they want, with a big ol’ fuck you to whoever happens to be in their line of sight when they do it.” She snorts, snapping her tail against her haunches. “With deities like that, who needs enemies,” she grumbles.
Þoka had her fair share of those, of course. With a personality as winning as hers it’s no surprise her only friend in the world is Fjö∂ur. She eyes the stallion who is still inexplicably engaging her in conversation, offering question for question, acting like he’s genuinely curious, and her eyes narrow further as she tries to ferret out what his ulterior motive might be. There is admittedly very little to go on: everything from his approach to his questions has been perfectly civil and...
...and is likely all a ruse to get her to let down her guard. Þoka’s scowl deepens. Even the information that he wasn’t born on the motherland isn’t enough to crack her trust —he’s still of the breed, still a horse, and therefore just as corrupt as anyone. Time for an exit strategy.
“Nothing so sentimental,” she replies, glancing idly over her shoulder to ensure the beach behind her is empty. She’ll just take herself off around the bend down that way until this guy leaves the beach, and then she can return and camp out to wait for Fjö∂ur in peace. “Just wanted to see if I could do it, that’s all. And I did. So fah!” she spits defiantly at the waves at her back before shaking herself out and eyeing the male once more. “Nice chatting with you,” Þoka says with a stiff nod of her head, annoyed at her own polite pretense, before she turns to leave. |