Meadow

There is a thread of horror in the unknown with which Sleia was, until this moment, wholly unfamiliar. Björn's assurances, however honestly offered and however wholly she believed him (and she did believe him), didn't quite put her heart at ease. The big sky people of her birth very much took their liberty for granted, as had she - kindly enlightening her to the contrary may have been less of an assault than summary imprisonment, but it was still violence of a sort.

It stirred something else in her breast, too: a stony resolve, toward what she wasn't yet certain. Relief rippled through her taut shoulders when Björn fixed her with winter-sky eyes and ushered the conversation onward.

He spoke of places on the island beyond the bounds of the meadow where she might still be safe, but the copper mare found herself more intrigued by the history those lands implied. It did no good to cling to the hope of her own safety in a world where even one other person might at any moment be denied it. Better first to slay the demon of her own ignorance. What were the Ruins before they were ruins? What shape did life take for him in the Inlet, when he needn't concern himself with the perceptions of others?

Sleia smiled softly at Björn, the expression genuine and unsullied by the shadow of her private storms. It was easy enough to keep her composure: he had been honest and kind to her in this moment, and reminiscent of her own customs had done so without expecting anything in return. "I imagine I'll get to know the meadow pretty well in time," she replied. Odd to feel so certain that she, as much of a wanderer as the Great Wanderers themselves, would stay anywhere long enough to put down roots - let alone in a place literally made of red flags - but something had drawn the star-speckled mare to these shores. She must see it through.

"If I may, I'd like to know a bit more about you. Have you always called these islands home? What is the Inlet like?"