VaLkA

mare / six / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

In the darkest and coldest part of Tinuvel’s winter, strength was more precious than ever. With most fodder buried beneath a thick blanket of snow and ice, the Bay’s residents dug deep— both literally and figuratively— in the fight to sustain themselves. Any remaining energy was expended in warming the blood that the frigid, unforgiving gusts of wind threatened to freeze. Most days, the herd did not move from the bluff-protected expanse not far from the sea, save during the hours of sunlight that grew scarcer with each day. And when it snowed— heavy storms where the skies turned white, more terrifying than beautiful— they crowded close together, letting the fat white flakes bury them alive.

Having evolved to survive the permafrost tundra of the northern mainland, Valka’s struggles were not as desperate as most. But the chestnut skjaldmær still grew leaner and more weary as winter’s little death wore on, the ridge of her spine and the jut of her hips a stark contrast to her swelling belly. Despite that weariness, however, the shaggy mare still held to her duties. Having exacted her vengeance on both the Lagoon and Rougaru, it was more important now than ever to remain on her guard. To protect the dwindling numbers of the Bay’s herd. And so— as the sky faded slowly from black to grey— the Yakut extracted herself from the press of equine bodies, leaving her Huskarl to stand vigil alone.

Snow crunched between her hooves with each step, and clouds of her warm breath fogged the air. Hesitating briefly to flick her ears backwards to point at the distant mountains of the Cove and then forwards to face the wildwood of the Inlet, Valka inevitably chose to continue north. Though their clashes of will had never truly ended, Solomon was still a steadfast ally— and sometimes more. To the west, her relationship with the sons of Tinuvel’s king was tense, but nonviolent. To the north, however, there was nothing but silence and uncertainty. Stalking forward warily, Valka wondered what had become of Ironclad. Was the pale stallion still there, conserving his strength for another attempt at Tinuvel’s crown? Or had something (or someone) uprooted him from his home, as had happened already in the past?

Shuttering her eyes against the bright glare of sun on snow, Valka did not immediately recognize the dark figure that crossed over the Inlet’s border. Flattening her ears and baring her teeth, the skjaldmær lengthened her strides, racing toward the creature with every intention of driving it back into the forest. But as she drew close, the red woman’s ears swept forward to catch the call of her old friend, and her dark gaze cleared in recognition of the mare’s white-patched body. Nickering a loud greeting of her own, Valka checked her speed to collide more gently with Medusa’s shoulder, blunt teeth scraping affectionately over the arched curve of her neck.

“Medusa,” she breathed, trying and failing to disguise the warmth of her next words beneath a reproachful growl. “Am I so easily forgotten?” Glimpsing the motion of a smaller body, Valka froze in the act of tugging a strand of her companion’s mane, small ears pointing forward curiously. “And who is this?”

More than anything, she felt the passage of time in the recognition that Medusa— once little more than a girl herself— now had a child of her own.