Falls

VaLkA

mare / four / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

Valka was certain that the greying novichok had intended for her to follow him home, but the chestnut mare was not about to make things so simple for him. If there was one thing that had been apparent to her from the start, it was that Ironclad did not yet possess the strength of leadership necessary to be a king. He was still a boy in truth, raw and untested - and the only way to temper a sword was to thrust it into the flames. The Yakut followed the princeling through the sea just long enough that he had ceased watching over his shoulder so vigilantly...and then promptly looped around and swam back to the shore.

Shaking vigorously to expel saltwater from her fluffy coat, the Yakut gave a spirited kick of her heels, enjoying the feeling of her stealthily-won freedom. Then - lifting her stout little legs high in a lively trot, Valka began to head inland with the pale point of her muzzle facing into the brisk wind that blew from the northeast. In this direction, the ever-present murmuring of the sea grew fainter until it yielded to silence - and the ranks of those who shared her species likewise thinned until they were absent entirely. After the cacophony of the commons, the mealy chestnut relished the solitude she found in the forest.

Until she encountered the Fjord.

Though taller of both limb and body than the Yakut, Valka felt a closer kinship with this stallion than the others her gaze had chanced upon thus far. In a way, the fluffy mare seemed to sense him as the product of another primitive breed, created to thrive in the colder climes as she was. In this particular moment, however, pale-coated dun did not appear to be prospering. Valka watched as he grazed like a creature on the verge of starvation, her short ears folding outward as she pondered the scene before her. There was something about the way the male moved that bespoke of the same emotions Valka had been struggling with since the loss of her family. Not a lack of strength, but more like a surrender of sorts.

Too well she knew how hard it was to fight when one's enemies seemed to be the fates themselves.

Feeling the strange compulsion to offer a measure of comfort to this kindred spirit, Valka crept forth slowly, keenly observant of her new companion's unspoken signals. It wasn't unknown for those who suffered to lash out at the creatures nearest to them, as if hoping that even a small piece of their painful burden could be pushed off to another. Eventually the Yakut had drifted close enough that they grazed with perhaps the length of one of the Fjord's bodies between them. At that point Valka paused, lifting her muzzle from the brittle grass with a soft huff. Other than that gentle exhalation of air, however, no attempt was made to break the silence - the small mare had already learned that the language spoken here was vastly different from the one that she knew. She couldn't speak to Ironclad or Sighurd. She couldn't make threats...or offer sympathies.

All Valka could offer was the small comfort of her silent presence , and hope that it made the desolation inside easier to bear - and that included her own as well as his.