She’s not not expecting him to follow her, but Þoka still shies away when he strides up to her shoulder. Her ears turn back and she eyes him sidelong, jaw gaping as she readies herself to bite should he try anything funny, but no, bucko still wants to talk. She scowls and sets her feet down firmly. Her first impulse is to jeer, “How the hell do you know?” but he’s already told her he’s native to this place. That’s how the hell he’d know, Þoka.
It’s no fun talking to herself. She misses Fjö∂ur. “Oh yeah?” Þoka lifts her ears only so that she can look out over the ocean and still keep tabs on the blue-eyed male. In all the time they’ve been standing here she’s seen nothing. No one. Not a hint of anything in the water except some stupid birds bobbing along the top, and not a soul in sight except this guy. The beach is empty. The ocean is empty. Þoka looks at the stallion again and her scowl deepens. She hates every single thing she’s feeling, and rather than acknowledge or allow any of that fear or apprehension to affect her she gets even more prickly instead.
“I suppose your Norns have something to do with that,” she bristles, sarcasm heavy on the word. “Fine. Have it your way. But it better be fucking close because I’m tired. If my legs give out on the way there I’m dragging you down with me,” she snarls, then stamps her hoof impatiently. “So let’s go!” |