Meadow

Her independence had been earned, despite the delicate nature of her gender.

Men, as her father had warned her, would wish to contain her, collect her, and make a mother of her. The pink mare had enjoyed her freedom so much, she had surmised that she would never be a likely mother. Her own mother, a sweet woman with tender eyes and full of gentle butterfly kisses, would have been appalled at her daughter’s behaviour.

There was nothing ladylike or delicate about her, and she would have picked up the battleax and sprinted headlong into battle, just as her father before her. Yet there was no call to pick up arms, and the world had fallen into a sort of quiet peace since she had been a child.

Vercingetorix had brought his children a lifetime of comfort, affording them smiles and laughter.

So here, among the strangers and lingering on her own like a little red spectre, dancing through the snow and weaving through the trees, she was happy on her little lonesome. It was perhaps perplexing to others, and perhaps the kind, dark stallion, Björn, had thought that he was doing her a favor by dragging her off into his home- but she had only hoped to visit. She wanted to warm her bones, and to feel the humid air against her skin.

It was a favorable change to the frigidity of the common island.

“Fair-weather warnings, I guess they don’t really exist, na.” She answers him somberly, nodding her head slowly as she understands. Perhaps he was not a man that strove for a great, large family. Perhaps he, like her, was content with exploring and meeting all the strangers that came and went. Sighurd appreciated him for that. “What is your name, by the way?” Looking him over for a moment, she offers up a smile before introducing herself in turn. “My name is Sighurd, na.”