Impa listens, and somewhere deep within her a terrible pounding begins. It starts slow as the Prime Minister explains the state of affairs that have afflicted the islands, and the Peak, over the years. Something catches within the nearly-sightless draft, however, and she keeps losing the thread of the conversation despite its severity and the deeply personal impact it has had on the mare relaying it all to them. She feels cold, then hot, her frame filling with a restless fury that feels decades old and fresh as the face she can barely see before her.
Macabre's death pains her to, and she latches onto that lodestone in the swirling sea of her growing fury. She recalls the young mare, adrift and uncertain but finally seeming to settle herself into the role of a Vulcan and wishes, fiercely, that she might have been here to see such strength unfold. "No doubt she was a mighty leader," she murmurs during a pause, then falls contemplatively silent as the Prime Minister continues to explain the events which have led to the influx of stallions in a primarily mare-dominated territory. Stallions had not been warmly welcomed when Impa resided here, though perhaps it had varied depending on the individual. She had never personally been keen on their company, save for a very select few— on or off the mountain.
The ugly beat becomes an unignorable pounding in her chest, in her ears, slamming even behind her eyes as she flexes her toes to remind herself she is still standing on this great green earth as Wasp comes to her conclusion. Impa is, as always, grateful for Mouse's easy presence beside her, for the grullo navigates the conversation with ease while Impa sweats and reminds herself not to grind her teeth. But there, then, in the silence, she can no longer refrain to speak. Her voice grates as it leaves her, each word strangled by how tightly she seeks to control the emotion in her tone: "Much has changed since I was a girl," she says, and feels her control fleeing with that admittance of the past.
Oh, what she would give to have born in a time such a this and not the male-dominated bullshit over which her father and men of his ilk reigned.
"A pity I'm not younger. I'd go out and give the men a run for their money," she continues, and by the time she reaches the end of her sentence her lips have curled around a snarl. All she had ever wanted, all she had ever desired in life was to have a herd of her own. To lead and protect a band of mares without the imposition of stallions; all this could have been hers, if only. "Forgive my surliness. Was a time when I thought mares were meant to lead like stallions, and my father swiftly taught me otherwise. I am.... I am happy to hear things are different now, even as I grieve my own opportunity missed. I," she continues more loudly, as if that will smooth over any awkwardness around her vulnerability, "am going to go reacquaint myself with the mountain. Thank you, Wasp, for everything. Mouse," Impa says, leaning to bump shoulders against her friend. "You coming?"
And with hardly a pause to hear the answer, Impa swings wide around Wasp (too wide, because if they touch Impa knows her unabated rage will make the innocuous brush a hearty shove as she rails against the unfairness of time) and stalks further into the territory, ears finally slanting down to bury themselves in her graying mane. Heaven help any wayward bachelor to cross this mare's path; she wears the mantle of her grandsire, now, and despite what time may have done to her body her mind is still sharp enough to cut stone. |
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