Mazarine was nothing more than a token of currency and this is what drove her to leave her homeland, and seek adventure somewhere new. This island chain seemed a cluster of opportunities risen from the ocean's waves, but it's all the same. Mazarine remains not more than currency, bought, sold, and traded across herd boundaries like the currency she always was. What even is her value? Clearly she must have some, perhaps as just a warm body or another pretty face to add to a collection, Mazarine isn't sure. Surely she doesn't have value as an open womb to her most recent account holder. Valka doesn't have the parts to utilize that asset. For this, Mazarine is grateful.

What is Valka's motivation? Mazarine hasn't figured it out. Maybe she would know if she took the time to ask, but she's afraid to dive in too deep. Mazarine grew fond of some of her desert companions, and thought she might like Solomon too. It hurts to think there might be a relationship worth fostering only to end up somewhere else and have to start again from scratch. Mazarine doesn't mingle with the horses of the Bay. She hangs back, waiting for some new battle result to send her packing again.

Until the cold teeth of winter sink into her thin flesh.

The small mare last wintered in the desert, where cool nights gave way to mild days. The long hours of sunlight on Salem inhibited the growth of a coat once full, so she is ill-prepared for a winter on Tinuvel this year. Mazarine finds herself seeking shelter among the warm bodies of strangers, clustered in a snow-dusted clearing. She does her best to avoid eye contact, feigning interest in the trampled, dead grasses at their feet. Mazarine's copper coat is damp and trembling, as she edges closer to the heat of a nearby stranger.