Common

Kvothe didn’t make it far before the Fates’ pendulum swung again, and her purpose was pulled in yet another direction. She had just overcome the stumbling awkwardness that plagued the first steps of her rebirth when the blunt scrape of teeth was felt on her sea-dampened coat. Given recent events, it would have been understandable had the mare lashed out in an effort to protect herself from further harm. Instead, she shied away from the gentle pinch of teeth, looking over her shoulder with dark eyes that were softly perplexed and that seemed to speak a silent language of their own. What did I do? They said as they rested on the pale form of the young stallion, a bright figure that seemed to glow amidst the darkness of night. And, pleading, please don’t hurt me.

It was easy for Kvothe to assume that she was being punished for some sort of crime, even if that crime was simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. That had been the way of things in her old home for as long as she could remember, and the cause of the hideous-but-healing wound on her face. Myths and stories might have celebrated the individuals who were different, but the truth was more grim for those who didn’t - or couldn’t - conform to the societies they were a part of. The Friesian had heard and studied enough of such tales to be perplexed by the disparity between the narrative they told and reality. But perhaps things were different for those who were destined for greatness - and not so for Kvothe, who was too gentle to be a warrior and too mild-mannered to be a revolutionary.

In fact, if Kvothe had any exceptional quality at all, it was her gentle heart. For all that she had suffered since she’d been banished, the young creature still felt nothing but love for those she’d been forced to leave behind - even the one who had attacked her. Deep down, Kvothe understood how her exile must have awakened the memories that still haunted Narene from long ago. It saddened her to know that her shame had reminded the herd’s matriarch of her own. She could not bear ill will to a mother still grieving for the loss of her first daughter.

A confident voice broke the bonds of Kvothe’s reverie, and her red ears pointed forward, quivering slightly with each word that was spoken. What may I call my new herd member? It took a matter of moments for the implications of the dark boy’s words to sink in; having expected rejection, her mind seemed incapable of grasping the acceptance implied by his statement. By the time that she was certain she had not misheard him, the stranger - Ironclad - was moving closer, and gave an exclamation of concern over the healing wound that marred the perfection of her face. Kvothe flushed, fighting the instinct to drop her gaze in shame with a firm thought. In time, the wound would inevitably become a scar, and scars were as much a part of one’s identity as their name. She would wear both with as much pride as she could muster.

“I - you need not fret, Ironclad de Warsaw. It doesn’t hurt very much anymore. And you may call me Kvothe, if it pleases you.” Spoken softly, her name sounded almost like a sigh, but the syllables could still be discerned with some effort. Kv-oath-ay. The fiery mare clung to the sound of it with desperation, knowing that it may well be the last time that she spoke it. Perhaps this Ironclad would wish to call her by some other name - and if he commanded her, then she would obey. But it was the final piece she held of her previous life, and she would surrender it as she had surrendered her home - with great sorrow and regret.