Brynja had learned a great many things during her seasons here. There was much for her to be uncertain about, still, and she had a lot to learn, but one thing she was absolutely sure of was that she was not an Island mare.

An Island mare would have sat and idly waited for a stallion to claim her in the Common, no matter how long it took to be noticed. An Island mare would have lingered in the Hills once they were abandoned, and stayed once they were reclaimed. An Island mare would hide within the shadows, pining for the affections of her lead, and let the herd fall to ruin. Brynja was a mare of the mainland, a mare of mountains and snow-frosted pines and long, sweeping valleys. She was resourceful. She was smart. And she would not allow this lack of communication to go on any longer.

Brynja was raised to act with the group’s welfare in mind. This lack of structure bothered her, and perhaps if someone took the lead, they could rally the disjointed band and find some common ground. Back home, they solved these issues with words: The land, though not altogether harsh, did not favor the injured, and the mares took great care to stay in top health in order to better fight off predators and bachelor stallions. It was impractical to settle problems with physical blows in lieu of a balanced discussion of strengths and past accomplishments. The chestnut had hoped Nymeria would feel the same way, and perhaps aim to talk things through, but when she jerked away, Brynja knew it would not be the case.

Well, fine. Brynja’s gaze hardened, and her ears flicked back for a moment. If that was the way it had to be, that was how it would be. She liked Nymeria, and they shared much of the same ideals, but brute force and posturing did not a good lead make. She stood her ground, head high, and lashed her tail, the long wet threads snapping audibly against her hindquarters. A sharp exhale pulled from her nostrils, and she pinned her ears, one front hoof pawing at the ground. She would not lunge for Nymeria, but she did take a step closer, quietly pushing the mare;s boundaries and moving into her space.

Brynja’s nerves sang within her, and the child nestled in her stomach stirred, made restless by the sudden surge of adrenaline. For her sake, and the sake of her foal, she would have greatly preferred to have settled this through words, but she had to communicate with her herdmates however it best suited them, and Nymeria was a mare of little speech. Whatever the outcome of this brief altercation, Brynja would hold no hard feelings towards her. This was strictly business.