Falls

VaLkA

mare / four / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

There was peace in the silence that they shared for the span of unnumbered heartbeats - time to simply breathe and think and be. It was a luxury the likes of which Valka had known before. Her people, in their fervor, had craved purpose and action in their lives as a pair of lungs craved air; they moved from one mission to the next with barely a moment between. Only now that her world had slowed that the Yakut understood how weary she had been. Not of war - their species was designed to fight, and her gods demanded it - but of duty. Sighurd had opened her eyes to the fact that it was possible to choose her own battles - the figurative ones as well as the literal.

Would that she had learned that lesson years ago.

The stallion was the first to break the silence that Valka was relishing, though the bite of her irritation was softened by wonder. While not close enough to her own language for the Yakut to entirely comprehend, there were enough similarities in both its diction and cadence that she was certain he'd greeted her and made some kind of inquiry about her purpose here. Yet there was something else niggling her - a memory long buried, perhaps? Cocking a hind leg and allowing her head to droop into a more relaxed stance, the mealy chestnut chewed over the words in the sanctuary of her thoughts. With a jolt, she suddenly realized where she'd heard such a dialect before. Once called upon by her king to fight the Panje whose borders seemed to continuously challenge those claimed by her tribe, Valka was certain she had heard them use some of the same syllables whilst heaping what she assumed were curses upon the polinitsa and her gods.

She had not regretted her actions at the time and remained absent of any repentance even now - but the small mare did wonder if they - the Panje, the Yakut, and even the Fjords - shared a common beginning. It was possible...likely, even. Regarding the grå male with a contemplative gaze, Valka decided to see how well he understood her dialect. "Zdravstvuj, ya Valka. Ty...Liland?" She was learning, albeit slowly. It had taken Ironclad two repetitions for her to understand that those syllables were his name, and she'd been unable to discern the name of the dun mare who'd shared their company from the many strange syllables she'd spoken. But from experience and observation, Valka had decided that the syllables ey am, sometimes spoken so quickly that they became eym, indicated an individual referring to themselves.

It was all so complicated... and so very frustrating.

An unruly strand of forelock had fallen across the mare's eyes, and she removed it with a quick toss of her head to better observe her companion. In these closer quarters, she could see the wounds the marred his pale flank. Stepping toward Liland - slowly again and with her head lowered in submission to emphasize the non-threatening nature of her approach - Valka edged close enough to investigate the wounds. Most appeared to be fine, but a deeper gash had accumulated some dirt. The Yakut raised her muzzle to it, warm breath briefly tickling the pale hairs that framed the exposed tissue. Then, with painstaking care, she began to clean the torn flesh, muscles tense and ready to sweep her from the stallion's side if he reacted poorly to her ministrations.