Meadow

VaLkA

mare / five / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

She was born for the bitter cold and the autumn snows. For the bare and unforgiving land, and the relentless sea that sought to swallow it. Valka knew there were many - the thought of the elk’s corpse came to mind, stiff and still with its smothering scent of decay - who struggled and foundered and were inevitably claimed by Tinuvel, but the pony-sized mare thrived there. Had she known any other life, this might have been a source of pride for the Yakut who called the coldest island her home. But the suffocating heat of Atlantis - and its overabundant bounty - were a dim memory by now; a waking nightmare tucked into the darkest corner of her thoughts. It had been over a year since she had claimed the Bay, and her life had resettled into the familiar routine of the long, monochromatic winters - punctuated only by a brief interlude of warmth and color. And though there were some who yearned for more than the brief blessing of life the land gave them, Valka appreciated it all the more for its transience.

But - even as content as she was - the chestnut skjaldmær could not help but to think and yearn beyond the boundaries of the land that she claimed.

Goose had returned to the home that they shared, but the old camaraderie they’d once held was not the same. Valka knew that the draft-like stallion had accepted the bargain for the sake of his family, but she could not help but to resent him for his part in restoring Cullen’s power at a moment where the golden stallion might finally have been restored. The Yakutian mare longed to speak to him about the situation, to air her on it - but she could not trust herself to keep the feeling of betrayal that had taken root in her aching chest safely bottled. So when the painted buckskin first approached her, Valka made her excuses and set off for the Crossing.

In the midst of fall, coming to this more-temperate land from Tinuvel was like taking a step back in time. There was no frost, save perhaps what clung dew-like to the leaves and grass before the sun had risen. Green could still be glimpsed here and there, though the primary palette that dominated was shades of sunset. And the streams still wound their way across the fields and through the forests like silver ribbons, where those that graced the Bay were either dried or frozen. In short, it was foreign, and filled Valka with a longing for the home she’d just left. But - ignoring this sweet ache - the shaggy creature continued along her way, determined to appreciate the beauty of this place in whole.

She made it as far as the meadow before hesitation slowed her steps again, the sound of a masculine voice causing one of her short red wars to twitch amidst the blonde tendrils of her mane. The Norns guide you, she’d heard, striking the chord of a memory that was buried beneath a pile of ashen regret. And there was only one creature on this island whom she’d heard offer homage to any gods. Only one who could make her heart beat faster, and the rough cadence of her voice soften. “Bjorn?” Valka inquired, turning her head until her dark gaze found the stallion who had spoken.

He was the right breed; a tribe she had warred with in the past, when her life had been dedicated to the survival of a dying tribe. Now - alone in the world, the last of her kind - Valka had made peace with the Icelandics, and sought to make peace with herself. Yet this boy - bright and young and full of raw potential in ways that the skjaldmær could never be again - evoked nothing from her but bitterness, because he was not the one she sought. So Valka did the only thing she could think when the pain sank deep, a razor claw perforating the walls of her heart: she retaliated against that pain in kind. “Gods have no power here,” she spat in a tone of vitriol that could not entirely disguise the weariness and yearning beneath. Without Goose, without Medusa, without Solvarr...she was lonely and crumbling, a lone pillar that could not hope to bear the weight of the world. “If it is true that they guided you here, then you are as forsaken as the rest of us,” she added to the woman, voice softening.

It was hard not to pity her, after all, if she had come all the way to the ends of the earth only to discover that it was not the Valhalla that those of the Old faith were promised.