VaLkA

mare / eight / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

Why here? She’d chosen not to dwell on the evident displeasure in the boy’s expression as the reality of his new home sunk in. After all, his predilections were set by a lifetime of ease and plenty, and his opinion of the skjaldmær was born from his sire’s bitterness. But those two syllables— beneath the revulsion, there was a deeper note of curiosity that commanded Valka’s attention. It wasn’t anything as momentous as reconciliation, but it was more than the unyielding wall of resentment she’d faced since his arrival on the Bay’s bleak, stony shore. And turning to face Drogon directly, the Yakut listened with attentiveness and even respect, as if the sullen creature’s words were important to her. And they were. As uncomfortable as their conversation was proving to be, the hard truths that she’d already learned were worth far more than the peace she’d sacrificed in reaching them.

You had Paradise. And you traded in a life of luxury for...this? For the first time since they’d met, the small mare laughed— a grim sound, but not without humor. “Imagine summer in your father’s home with this.” She gave her fluffy coat a shake to emphasize and elaborate on her answer, shuddering at the memory of Atlantis’s stifling heat. “Here, I not feel cold. Work for food, but only during winter. There… even the land wants to kill me.” A wry smile curled her lips as she repeated the youth’s own phrase back at him, but there was no malice in the expression. It was only a means of pointing out their differences— and their similarities.

She had already suffered, and grown stronger for it. And Rougaru’s son— she genuinely believed that he would be stronger for the trials he faced here, too.

At the seal brown’s request Valka stepped forward readily, moving towards the herd at whatever pace her companion determined was comfortable. But though he’d indicated a willingness to continue their discussion, she couldn’t think of anything more to say. She’d won no favor with the boy in honesty, and less in the concise information she’d given. As far as his preferences seemed to go, silence was the safest course. And so they had covered more than half the distance from one bluff to the next before a nagging question would not allow the skjaldmær to hold her tongue any longer. Glancing sideways and up at the stallion, she voiced her curiosity more as an observation than a question. “You never told me your name.”

She left her words at that, without demand or plea. At this point, Drogon was free to define who he would be here in at least one way. He could keep silent and remain Rougaru's son— or choose his own path forward, be it with his birth name or a new one of his own choosing.