Force-claiming is not allowed here. This is a peaceful, neutral area meant for socialising.
| my vicious
tongue cradles just one | |
| Anger is so much more comfortable than grief. Þoka leans into it as she cleans the salt from her coat, nipping herself more than once in her own haste and carelessness as she rages internally. She should have known the Icelandic was just like all the rest, just like every single stallion she and Fjö∂ur had left behind: intent on a bigger herd with little care for who was in it and willing to do or say anything to make it so. She counts herself lucky that she could flee before the seasons turned, for hers is one womb that will not be waiting in Björn’s ranks. If she’s lucky he won’t miss her enough to pursue. Þoka made a damned good effort to make sure she isn’t worth the trouble, and given his caustic reception of her after their one and only swim together she feels certain he’ll have wiped his hands of her irascible self. Certainly without the red mare’s presence he’d have either abandoned her to her own devices or, more likely given her experience of stallions, done away with a mare who was not only troublesome but defiantly lacking in respect.
The memories surge within her and she fights them all back, all but one. Fjö∂ur stands easy in her mind’s eye, her mane windblown by the sea breeze, eyes bright— happy. After all they’d been through together, all they’d seen and survived and finally bucked to take the matter of their fates onto their own shoulders, it seemed impossible that she could be dead. But that great bitch of a sea stole her and Þoka’s world has grown dim. A voice jars her from her unpleasant reverie. Þoka raises her head sharply, dark forelock flung back and teary eyes wide and staring as a tall stallion settles nearby and speaks to her. Her chin rises a notch higher under his scrutiny, as if to give him a better look of her melancholy. Þoka knows no shame. At least this stallion does not speak to her coyly— though she trusts him not a whit more than anyone else on these islands. She draws herself up into a firmer stance, ears still pinned, lips drawing back a bit from her long yellow teeth as she drags in a breath to speak. There is no pearl under this mollusk’s tongue. All she has to offer the world now are the spines bristling out of her hard, thick shell. So that’s how it’s to be, then? Wandering cold, lonely beaches forever, squawking like a gull at anyone who dares to come to close to you? A bitter future awaits her if she allows it to be so. Siobhan had shown restraint and patience in the face of Þoka‘s disagreeable nature. If Fjö∂ur is no more —the thought sends a fresh deluge of tears down her cheeks, and though Þoka does not sob her breath does hitch— then it is Only Þoka, and Only Þoka is no way to be. So. She tries to smile, but the expression feels clunky and foreign on her face. “I’d cast a drought on the ocean if I could,” she replies, and while her voice isn’t warm at least she isn’t slinging vitriol like usual. “I’m Þoka.” Her voice has that thick, nasal-dam quality of someone who has been crying, and that is what finally lowers the proud cant of her head. She sounds so small. Þoka snorts in an attempt to clear her nose, blinking away her last wave of tears only to behold yet another horse approaching. The pale mare who joins them is familiar in a vague way, at least until she offers Þoka a smile, and suddenly the context of where the blue roan knows her from clicks into place. Þoka recoils, backing away several steps from the mare and looking past her to see if she’s been tailed by the blue-eyed stallion. Her ears lift and swivel, trying to hear everything at once. “Dunno,” Þoka says, trying to appear nonchalant, but her eyes slide continuously away from the mare to gauge the surrounding area for signs of a third arrival. “Wouldn’t know the names of anyone you’re looking to hear about, anyway,” she mutters, then eyes the tall male. What brought him her way, she wonders with a snap of her still-dripping tail against her dark haunches before her gaze shifts again to look for Björn. It might not be a bad idea to make a good impression on this one just in case that Icelandic stallion is lurking in the shadows. Not too good, mind, but maybe she could at least try not to make such a sour impression on every new horse she meets. “Uhm, what’s this about a waterfall?” she asks, glancing from one pale horse to the other, and though it galls her to admit it she adds, “Don’t really know my way around here.” If only Fjö∂ur could see her now. | |
Þoka | |