VaLkA

mare / four / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

Had this visitor known of Valka’s history on the islands, perhaps he would have been more circumspect. Perhaps he would have understood the embers that burned behind the chestnut’s dark gaze, and the snarl that curled her lip upward in response to his flippant words. In the moment that the corners of the grullo’s mouth had turned upwards, Valka was reminded strongly of Rougaru, and the demeaning way he’d treated her. Not abusive, which might have come as a relief to a woman accustomed to expressing her emotions with violence, but dismissive. She had been nothing to him but a number - or perhaps more succinctly, a womb with legs. In any case, the faint ghost of Bjorn’s smile broke Valka. For the span of the few ragged breaths she drew in the silence that followed - for the span of the heartbeats that thundered in her small ears - oh, how she hated the creature before her. How she longed to silence him not just now, but forever.

But Tinuvel was a hard land, and those who lived in it must learn to face that hard truths that came before them.

With an effort, the Yakutian mare dimmed the heat of her gaze, and shifted into a less rigid and less aggressive posture. There was still tension ebbing and flowing beneath the soft down of her coat, but a skjaldmær could scarcely be blamed when she stood in readiness to defend what was hers. And two strangers were wise to remain wary of one another, regardless of the words that were exchanged between them. “Nyet,” she responded defiantly, her refusal to address him in his native tongue a statement in itself. “This is how to greet intruder. As a king once tell me, it is wiser to assume that stranger is enemy than friend.” There was a note of victory in her voice as she presented this argument, knowing that it could not be easily refuted. Especially by the likes of the creature who stood before her.

By the scars that marred the Icelandic stallion’s grey hide, it was evident that he was no stranger to savagery of their world. Yet if his words were to be believed, Bjorn had not come to fight. And there was wisdom in what he said - in the need to seek friends, lest the chocolate stallion she’d outwitted ever feel the need to retaliate. The concept of an alliance with him, however, was something that would never have occurred to the small mare, and not one that she could accept easily. Valka had fought his tribe before, and knew them to be fierce adversaries. But perhaps here - beyond the reach of the war she’d once fought - they need not fall into the same self-destructive habits as their ancestors. Perhaps here, the greater enemy that they faced against behemoths such as Rougaru and Goose was enough to justify putting their people’s bloody pasts behind them.

“Ég er Valka,” she relented after another breadth of silence, not entirely able to mask the distrust she felt from both expression and voice. But if this Bjorn was like her - more interested in the alliance aspect of their relationship than the friendship - then he would not be personally affronted. A wary ally was worth more than two who trusted openly; they were the more likely to stand firm against any threat. “But I not hear of Bjorn who live on Tinuvel before. Are you from Cove, or from Inlet?” Edging warily closer, Valka caught the faint trace of scents that clung to the grullo beneath the heavier mask of the ocean’s brine, and froze. She had spent too long on the tropical island not to recognize the perfume of its palm trees and fragrant flowers. Atlantis.

In a moment, the auburn mare went rigid again, her muscles locked in place from the tumult of emotions that her discovery had brought. “Or maybe it not either. Maybe you come from a different island, because someone send you.” The accusation was hissed through clenched teeth, and small ears were pinned flat, lost in the creamy sea of her mane. Valka suddenly wanted nothing more than to fight this creature who may well have been sent by Rougaru - and to flee from him and the memories of her imprisonment. Unable to settle on a single course of action, the Yakut’s mind swung like a rapid pendulum between the two warring instincts. Everything balanced on a knife’s edge, and a single thought could well tip it to one side.

Bjorn’s next words would determine if their meeting ended in bloodshed, or in peace.