There it is.
Every turn of phrase, every careful selection of words— Þoka sees his deceptions clearly now, too late, and her demeanor grows stonier still with every statement Björn makes. Her gaze meets his unflinchingly, obsidian-cold against his ice blue. The blue roan is not a violent mare. All the savagery she is capable of rests solely in her words, and she maintains an unusual (for her) silence as she regards the stallion with undisguised contempt while his words fade from the air.
The variety of emotions crossing the red mare’s face therefore go unobserved by Þoka, and so when she finally does turn her stare away from the bald faced stallion she sees only the neutral mask the mare has slipped on. This façade is equally untrustworthy, and Þoka receives her offer to help with a snort of disbelief. So much for having avoided hostile territory. Now she’s smack-dab in the middle of it, and this time she’s got no backup whatsoever. Fjö∂ur’s gone.
“Þoka,” she spits at the red mare, then looks between Siobhan and Björn. “My name is Þoka. And you can fuck right off with that princess shit, Konung, unless you’re making me an offer to join your royal ranks.” It’s a toss-up between which would be less likely: Björn to elevate her rank or Þoka to accept it. Still, she entertains the idea. It would feel so good to spitefully reject him and his superficial hierarchy, if ever she was given the chance.
Þoka snaps her black tail across her hips. “Boy, I can”t wait to meet everyone else here,” she says with sarcastic enthusiasm. “Under a leader with so much integrity they must be a group of real winners.” |