VaLkA

mare / four / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

The sound of hooves clattering over stone penetrated the howling gale that had become Valka’s thoughts. Her immediate thought was that Rougaru had come to retrieve his wayward possession, to which she reacted with a silent baring of teeth and tensing of skin. It was only when the white-splashed youth stepped into view that her features smoothed into a more neutral mask - not openly hostile, but still wary. Because even those of her own gender could not be counted on for kindness or tolerance - one of the stallion’s mates might have fallen upon her as well, if only to win the favor of their king. But this one appeared indifferent to the fact that she might be witnessing an attempted escape; she offered little more than her name, and a single perplexing question.

It was fortunate that the Yakut had learned enough over the course of the past season to understand the words - even if their intent was not entirely clear to her.

“Valka,” the red mare offered in a simple reply to the greeting, touching her muzzle to the painted mare’s only briefly before she withdrew. The latter statement she pondered over longer, dark eyes searching the stranger’s expression for any silent cues that might imply it was not a true question, but a remark intended to raise her ire. After a moment she relented, releasing the other’s gaze - and her breath - with a soft huff of air. “No. I am…” A pause, while she counted internally, and then exchanged the words she was familiar with for the foreign syllables of the tongue spoken in this land. “Four years ago born. My herd, we are all… small. But big hearts, strong in fight.” The wiry muscles were not readily observed beneath the Yakut’s fluffy coat, except in the spots that the long hairs had become dampened with sweat and clung to her figure. Even the heat at this higher elevation was uncomfortable, if not unbearable.

The blonde-maned chestnut shifted restlessly, not as relaxed in the company of this taller, thinner mare as she was in Grier’s presence. Part of it was the distinctive scent of Rougaru that clung to her coat, but there were other, more comforting scents as well. Such as the faint-but-present smells of tangy pine, grass, and dry earth. Smells that could have only come from a more temperate climate, such as the Crossing in which she’d originally arrived. Valka longed for the cooler weather of her homeland. For air so cold that it burned her lungs, for the gentle kiss of snow on the soft skin of her muzzle. And for the frigid, clawing winds that felt like a caress to her thickly-furred figure. She dreamed of all these things - but mostly, the small mare dreamed of freedom, a gift that she had taken for granted until it was stolen from her.

Yet this stranger smelled of other lands, despite appearing every bit at ease here. It was a puzzle, and one that Valka was determined to unlock. If only the words that would help her to learn the truth were easily found. “You, Rougaru’s?” She asked, casting a wary eye down the mountain as if certain that speaking the brute’s name would summon him here. In his presence, Valka still feigned limited knowledge of the language, and ignorance of his name. It was an amusing game, if not entirely productive. “I was Ironclad’s. Then he give to Rougaru. But I spit on these mudak.” With her limited vocabulary, the would-be skjaldmær could not express that she would not permit any stallion to own her. But it was clear enough in the flash of defiance that smoldered in the depths of her eyes, in the flare of her nostrils as she exhaled her breath in a harsh snort that was also a harsh denunciation. It mattered little to Valka in that moment who witnessed the instant of rebellion - the bay stallion would know soon enough.