Common

VaLkA

mare / four / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

Valka was known by many to be a prickly creature - she was not the sort to chit-chat about meaningless things, did not invite intimacy of any kind, and was stubborn to the core of her being. The closest thing she’d held to a friend since coming to the islands was Grier, the roan mare whom she’d left behind in Paradise. And even they had spoken little - Valka’s grasp of the language then was rudimentary at best - but the Yakut had often lingered near the Cob cross, letting the ebb and flow of the conversations she’d held with other members of the herd wash over her. At least half of her current vocabulary was owed to Grier, and Valka was grateful for the invaluable foundation it had provided her.

That said, nothing could compare to hearing the sound of a more familiar language being spoken - even if it was not Valka’s native tongue. Long ago, this mare’s ancestors and her own might have shared common blood - but the Yakutian tribes had diverged, and the language they spoke and gods they worshipped had diverged with them. Only those who held higher ranks within the herd were taught of the Old Ways - with emphasis on the language, so that they might communicate with their enemies in matters such as the exchange of captives. Those moments had been few and far between, but Valka had always held to the Old Ways, and held what she’d learned close to her heart.

Perhaps it should have felt like a betrayal, cozying up to the enemy. But beneath the fierce, unyielding veneer that she wore, Valka was lonely… and still grieving for what she had lost. “Sæunn,” she repeated, familiarizing herself first with the full version of her companion’s name. The syllables came easier to her than those of most names that she had encountered on these islands. Goose, Rougaru, Ironclad... Those who lived here seemed to feel that the longer the name they possessed, the more impressive it sounded. Valka could not have agreed less. Of the three stallions whose names she’d learned, only Goose had proven to be worthy of more than a passing glance.

Valka tossed her own white-blonde mane when the other mare began to speak again, edging close enough that the fluffy red hairs of her coat brushed lightly against Sæunn’s side. “Nei. Þessi staður er enginn heima. Það er kallað..." The Yakutian mare paused, slowing her speech to enunciate each syllable. ”The Common.” Though she did not really possess the words in either language to describe the dangers of this place, she communicated with the tension of her body and the wariness of her gaze that this was not a place to let down one's guard. “Heimili mitt er Tinuvel.” Again, she took greater pains to pronounce the last word slowly, though it was not quite as difficult as the first name she’d offered.

Having answered the palomino’s questions as completely as she could, Valka shifted closer again. Her movements cautiously slow, she reached for Sæunn’s creamy mane with her teeth, removing some of the detritus that it had accumulated over the course of the other mare’s journey. Social grooming was but one of many things that the stout chestnut had missed since the volcanic eruption that had robbed her of her first life. And though she had inevitably preferred stallions when it came to choosing a sparring partner - their greater strength provided a greater challenge - Valka infinitely preferred the company of her own gender. Males were too self-important, with the constant need to preen and prove their superiority.

Of course, these thoughts inevitably led the Yakut’s mind back to her troubles in the Bay, and she could not entirely conceal a scowl as she set to work straightening the tangled mess of Sæunn’s forelock.