Common

VaLkA

mare / six / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

Valka had left the Bay in search of peace, hoping to escape the burdens of thought and memory amongst the unfamiliar. But even in this far distant place, the chestnut’s regrets somehow still found her. Seasons ago, she’d vowed to protect the grullo stallion who’d come to her shores— but time and again, she’d failed him. When Bjorn had faced Warsaw, it had been alone. When he’d returned to the Bay to announce his victory, Solomon had arrived to defeat them both. And when the Inlet’s rightful ruler returned for what was his, the child she’d borne in the wake of that battle had prevented her from standing beside her Icelandic ally. It was clear enough that Warsaw had emerged the victor in the end— but as to Bjorn’s fate, the skjaldmær could only guess.

She hadn’t seen him since, and Valka’s failure continued to haunt her to this day.

Shaking the salt-crusted disarray of her coat in an effort to ground herself, the Yakutian mare turned her gaze back to the white-masked figure whom she’d greeted with stunned disbelief. Only moments ago, the creature’s coat had appeared a dull grey. But now that she was truly looking, Valka found it to be a reddish gold that was dusted with white and almost wholly unblemished. The mare’s— mare’s?— build was also different. Where Bjorn resembled more closely the stout, shaggy race with whom the skjaldmær’s own tribe had once warred, this female was longer of limb and leaner of body. Of course, Valka’s mind processed these details only on a subliminal level— meeting the pale eyes of the unfamiliar female, there was only one conscious thought in the shaggy chestnut’s mind: this was not Bjorn.

As if bowing beneath the weight of her disillusionment, the red woman’s body sagged, and her chin tucked tightly against the curve of her neck. Gone were the trappings of pride and power; the fierce fire and the stiff-necked stubbornness. For once, Valka appeared every bit as small as she was; a pebble amidst life’s crashing waves. And that was when the stranger’s questions— tumbling over one another in their haste to be spoken— finally reached her. How do you know that name? Who are you? The small points of the Yakut’s ears tipped forward, and her dark eyes rose to meet the other’s penetrating blue stare. Though her companion was not Bjorn, the desperate curiosity in her voice hinted at a connection between she and the absent stallion.

Are you...family?

Though the hatred bred into her had dimmed over the years, Valka bristled involuntarily at this question. “No,” the chestnut responded tersely, shaking her shaggy coat again. “Bjorn was— friend. No, ally.” In her strained state, the words that she’d picked up were fleeing from her like water through the sieve of cupped hands, and the skjaldmær’s accent had thickened. “We fought together, once,” The pony-sized mare continued after a pause, struggling to conceal the guilt and shame from her voice. Yes they'd fought together...and she could not bear to confess that she had failed him. Desperate to escape before that harsh truth came to light, she sought to steer their conversation in a less painful direction.

“You know Bjorn?” Valka asked, the short arch of her neck lifting a fraction. A dim hope flared in her chest, but she snuffed it out grimly. Even if this golden mare knew where she might find the stallion, there was no way that the Bay’s guardian could leave. Kaleidoscopic images of Solomon, of Goose, of Bacardi flashed through the Yakut’s mind as she waited— silently— for this ghost of her past to speak.