VaLkA

mare / four / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

Valka knew that one day she would not be able to recall with clarity the land she had once called home - that time would inevitably claim all that remained of her previous life. The drumming beat of hooves travelling across the tundra’s hard earth. The cold, serrated teeth of the wind yanking at the tangled skeins of her almost-white mane and burning in her laboring lungs. The faces of those she had failed to protect - citizens and soldiers, kin and king. All had been claimed by the sacred mountain’s flame, and naught but ash remained - save in the sanctity of the small chestnut’s mind. And one day, that too would be taken from her - only time would be the fire in which it burned, and then nothing would remain.

No, that wasn’t quite true. Valka herself would remain - as would the threads of her past that were woven so deeply into the tapestry of who she’d become that they were not so easily plucked away. She might not be able to recall the color of her king’s eyes, but the fluffy mare remembered how it had felt to stand between him and danger. And sensing the presence of Sæunn behind her, the skjaldmær felt it again. That strong surge of protectiveness that held a strangely-maternal edge; the drive to throw herself at this stranger rather than risk the possibility of him harming her friend. But in the same moment, she sought to hold the urge in check - to temper it with a deep inhale of the cold air, followed by a gentle exhale through her flared nostrils. For a moment that felt longer than it was, the trio stood in silent impasse, as if all understood the dangers of an ill-spoken word or an ill-timed sound.

Then the silver stallion spoke, and the moment was broken.

I am Sköl, kappi í Norðurlandi. The speech flowed to ears that hastened to unbury themselves from the creamy tangles of Valka’s mane - and then lingered there, like the weight of her dark gaze on the stallion’s face. It was not the tongue she’d been born to speak, and not quite the same as the other she’d learned out of necessity, to converse with both captives and captors during the course of her people’s endless war. But it was similar - and even beyond the meaning of the words that the Yakutian mare could not grasp, there was no mistaking the submission evident in the spotted male’s posture. The effort served to appease Valka far more than any speech that he could offer, comprehensible or not. Verbal communication could easily contain lies; the language of one’s posture and expression, less so.

“Óttastu ekki, Sköl,” The stout chestnut offered, allowing some of the rigidity to ease from her stance like the frozen ground was softened by the warm gaze of spring. “Do not fear. Ég spara styrk fyrir óvini mína.” Valka’s words were an elaboration on what her body expressed; though her chocolate eyes were still wary, there was a willingness to listen as much as a desire to be heard. Having suffered more than one defeat recently, the Yakut had been forced to step back and reassess how she responded to those who crossed over into the Bay. While respect for each land’s boundaries was a vital part of life on the islands, strength was better preserved for confrontations with no hope of a peaceful outcome.

And if there was one thing that her first encounter with Solomon had taught Valka, it was that the absence of males in a territory could have unforeseen consequences. With Goose still a captive - and her own fighting skills likely to decline until the coming spring - perhaps it would be wise to allow the pale grullo to linger, if that was what he desired. If nothing else, it would be a relief to share the burden of defending the Bay with another. “Sá vinnur sitt mál, sem þráastur er.” The shaggy mare murmured as much to herself as to the one who stood before her.

But the weight of this vow - and the stranger’s view - were not enough in themselves. Valka stalked forward, circling the taller figure of the blanketed stallion and looking him over with appraising eyes. Sköl was built similar to the Fjords she had encountered both on the islands and just outside the boundaries of her old home - but differently, as well. In fact, he appeared to be a sort of blend of her own short, stocky build and the leaner, taller build of creatures like (Solomon) those she had seen more frequently in this new land. It made for an unusual appearance to her discerning eyes, but even the skjaldmær could not deny the potential for strength that she witnessed in the subtle play of his muscles. Though his nature was too subdued to be the huskarl she might have hoped for, Sköl would undoubtedly make for a worthy soldier. And perhaps - given enough time - he might prove her wrong even in that regard.