"Oh, I don't really live anywhere right now." Freya replies, her tone far too casual for such a statement. Homelessness had never frightened the seasoned mare; after all, she had spent many of her former years living the life of a transient. With nothing to tie her down, she was free to let the wind take her where in may. She often wondered if her children had been condemned to live the same life when she was taken from them.
Inhaling a steadying breath, Freya listens intently as the ashen mare speaks again. It pleases her to know the Inlet hasn't been completely abandoned. When her companion mentions a new stallion, her heart stutters within her chest. She knows she is grasping at straws; there is no way fate would be kind enough, cooperative enough, to make things this easy for her.
Nostrils flare, and Vita's scent floods her brain; she searches desperately for a familiar musk on her - yet finds nothing except crisp alpine air on her leaden coat. She blinks against her burgeoning disappointment and steadies her breath in a desperate attempt to cling onto the last shrapnel of hope that has lodged itself in her heart.
"I used to be queen of the Inlet," she murmurs in clarification, wondering if it will inspire any questions from her younger companion. "I lived there for many years, my children were born and raised on that island." She wonders how much it's changed, if at all. She longs to stand on Tinuvel's shores again, letting the sea cleanse her soul and wash away the grief she has carried with her for all these years. Yet, she's unsure if she's ready to face her past just yet - there is still something there stopping her from confronting those demons. For now, she figures, she can do with simply keeping them at bay.
"I've never heard of this Mariael - she must have come after my family left and the herd dispersed." How long has it been since her family was scattered to the wind? Over half a decade, at least, but she has lost track of the details by now. Time marches relentlessly forward, and Freya feels as if these years have passed in the blink of an eye. Yet at the same time, its passage was a slow and disappointing crawl, a sluggish race towards an end that could never be reached.
Fixing a blue eye on Vita Nova's face, Freya poses another question to her: "Did you ever hear of a stallion named Bjorn?" Although Bjorn was likely several years older than Vita Nova, perhaps the two had crossed path at some point in the past. Fate had been kind to the old mare lately. One more stroke of luck wasn't too much to ask for, was it?