VaLkA

mare / eight / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

Where nothing else had appeared to reach the dark stallion, the skjaldmær’s humor somehow chipped away at the wall of ice that stood between them. The flicker of his grin was a fleeting thing— lasting no longer than it took Valka to draw breath— but no less profound for its brevity. To her, it marked the possibility of something apart from the ebb and flow of her companion’s anger; something other than open hostility or sullen silence. And as tiny a victory as that might be, the shaggy chestnut savored it during the course of their quiet trek, knowing that it would be followed by some sort of defeat. And sure enough, the comment that she made— gentle and undemanding as it was— was met with a wall of chilly courtesy and a subtle challenge. You hadn’t asked. Still haven’t, actually.

But the boy’s defiance was as short-lived as his surrender; seconds later, his name was offered in a tone absent of his previous comments’ enmity. Drogon. Valka acknowledged the response with a curt nod, chewing over the thoughts it evoked in silence. It wasn’t a victory— not the same way that their moment of mutual humor had been— but it was still something he’d given freely, even after the Yakut had done nothing but take from him. His idyllic life in Paradise, his freedom, his sense of purpose. She’d claimed all of those things before Drogon set hoof on her shore, and he was facing it with the sort of forbearance that she herself had proven incapable of. Glancing sideways at the young stallion when he spoke again, Valka’s dark eyes were inscrutable, but there was a fierce spark of something there— respect, perhaps.

What about them? Following the line of the sable male’s gaze, the skjaldmær regarded the Bay’s herd too. It would have been easy to give her companion names to accompany each of the individuals, and the residual gratitude Valka felt even encouraged her to. But the small mare warred against that impulse, resolving to make Drogon find his own answers. On Tinuvel, interaction with one’s herd was more than a pleasant diversion— it was a matter of survival. If the boy’s pride prevented him from approaching and conversing with those around him, a single chilly night would convince him to set that pride aside. And if it didn’t, then perhaps the perspective he gained would help to show him a path that diverged from the one his sire had undoubtedly planned.

“What about them?” The red woman echoed, her small ears flicking carelessly forward. She continued walking for another few moments in silence, and then abruptly stopped, cocking her head to look up at Drogon. “What you want to know, ask them. We have no secrets here in the Bay.” Her stout body began to shift away from the youth, pointing itself towards the border between Bay and Cove. “I must tend to my duties. Go, join them. Ask for Bacardi, if you have any needs in my absence. And... if you should change your mind, Drogon, know that my offer to return you home will always be open.”