Meadow
Force-claiming is not allowed here. This is a peaceful, neutral area meant for socialising.
Posted on July 7, 2020 at 12:51:00 PM by ylva
The past year has been one of the worst in Ylva’s young life. Lies, conflict, death, and loss have dogged her every step, like a many-headed beast hunting her, snapping at her heels and waiting for her strength to falter. As Goose offers sympathetic words, Ylva finds herself trying to tune them out. Instead she thinks of the last time she had been in the Bay, which had been little more than a brief visit to its shores. She had returned from her period on Atlantis with fire in her heart, ready to question Liland and make him answer for the many crimes stacked against him. Instead, she had arrived to find a new stallion’s scent permeating the island, and Liland nowhere to be seen. Before she could be detected, Ylva had slipped back into the sea, the fire in her heart smothered into ash.
She finds that fire returning now, pulsing hot in her chest. Goose’s words are not soothing: they are like arrows raining down on her, impossible to tune out for all the pain they bring her, reminding her of all the half-healed scars she still carries. She wants to snap at him, to tell him to swallow his niceties, but she doesn’t. She knows he is only trying to express sympathy, and that he doesn’t know how it’s the last thing she needs right now. Even so, she has to wonder: does Goose know what happened to Liland? Does he know something she doesn’t? Her mouth is a firm line, her dark eyes downcast, but they snap back up to Goose’s face when he offers her a place back in the Bay. The fire in her chest roars into a furnace, and for a moment she simply stares at him, not trusting herself to speak. First Warsaw, now him. Stallions were all the same. “Thank you,” she replies tersely, “but I have no intention of returning to Tinuvel, at least not any time soon. I wish you all the best with the Bay, though.” She nudges Runar, who had nosed his way toward her milk, and begins to lead him away across the swaying meadow grass, her steps stiff and brisk. 5; norwegian fjord; red dun pangare; 14hh  |
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