“Woah, what?” Þoka stands with all four hooves squared, ears forward as she peers up at the larger mare. Questions crowd behind her teeth, then spill forth rapid-fire. “Hold up, you said kids got stolen? Why? By who? What for?” She takes a step closer. “And why wasn’t Björn around?”
She listens to Elvria’s explanation about how she came to be in the stallion’s possession and frowns. It’s a little hard to follow. She’s unsurprised, though, at the circumstances. Her opinion of the stallion is admittedly (and obviously) biased, but beyond that his acceptance of a mare—flesh—as payment for... what, Þoka can’t decipher from Elvira’s reply, but does it matter? It’s the way of men. Trade women, trade their children, get mad about how tangled up the lives of these jostled women and daughters become and then ultimately blame whatever comes of it on the female. Like she chose to hop from herd to herd and wasn’t shunted into it by someone else.
No thanks. “You’re not fucking currency, Elvira,” she snaps, vehement. “Maybe now that your da is gone and Björn... well, whatever.” Þoka shuffles her feet again. She’s made an agreement with herself not to stir shit up quite so much as she did on the beach when she first arrived here half-drowned on the heels of the Ridge’s king. Better not to piss of the resident royalty any worse than she had, especially since she’s now under his direct... protection? Is that what everyone pretends it’s called? Þoka snorts. “Who told you it was your fault?” |