Common

Storyteller and songwriter she was not.

Obtuse and lacking the kind of wit that came with well-sung stories, Sighurd was never any good at doing much else aside from blurting out the obvious and painting a picture everyone else could see. The boy, probably better educated than herself, seemed to be given a heavy hand in manners and even if he looks annoyed (was he squinting at her?) at her interruption, his words are a little heavy handed and something that even her own father would have been proud of.

She was terrible at being daddy’s little soldier.

The small one, foreign and fluffy- so fluffy- looks just as confused as the boy, spitting strange words and looking at them almost scornfully. The red mare, still slack jawed and somewhat in awe with the hair that cascades from the mare’s neck like a flaxen waterfall, lets an awkward silence rise up between them. “Sighurd ah… de… Vercingetorix?” Scrunching up her face in thought, she looks as though she has no idea what she’s saying, and the formality of it all is somewhat overwhelming.

She should have listened better.

Instead, she much preferred the rough and tumble play that she partook in with her brothers- and that was not proper of the eldest daughter.

“Valka.” The strange woman says, an affirmation on her tongue that is strong and suggests that was her title, or name, if you wanted to be specific. “Well, that’s Valka, na.” Sighurd awkwardly jerks her head towards the mare, feigning familiarity with a genuine smile and a playful flick of the tail across her haunches.

She had absolutely no idea who the woman was.

Clearing her throat, as if all the fun and games were over, and it was the red woman’s job to speak for the little foreigner, Sighurd gathers herself up and tries to look a little more impressive. It was a difficult task, given that the winter had been harsh and she looked like little more than a drowned, pink-red rat. “What are your plans, for, ah, Valka?”