VaLkA

mare / eight / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

Home. When she’d first chosen the Bay as hers, it was more a matter of practicality than emotion. Between her thick coat and familiarity with cold and unforgiving climates, it was simply easier to survive on Tinuvel than anywhere else. Then, home was nothing more or less than the land where she lived: the grassy tundra, the curved beach, the windswept bluffs. But the longer that she lingered in this place— and the longer that she came to know those who shared it— the meaning of that word had begun to change. Over the seasons and years Valka spent within its boundaries, she’d experienced the steadying boulder of Goose’s friendship, the wild storm of Solomon’s passion, and the quiet shore of Bacardi’s compassion. And the skjaldmær had come to learn that home was more than the earth and stone of the Bay.

It was also those who’d brought life and meaning into it.

Thus, the buckskin stallion was as much Valka’s home as the ground on which she stood— no, more. Leaning into the gentle brush of Goose’s muzzle, the stocky chestnut suddenly understood that no plot of land could mean as much to her as this. And if it came to a choice between the Bay and the family she’d built there, there was no choice at all. She would leave this place tomorrow, and take her home with her when she went.

Comforted by this newfound resolve, the Yakut tipped her small ears forward at the sound of the larger stallion’s voice. I do not however; intend to leave again. It takes too much away from me and clearly you my friend. A beat of hesitation followed this confession, during which a kaleidoscope of emotion flitted through the russet mare’s gaze. Joy and sorrow and doubt and affection tangled together, overwhelming her in their intensity. But in the end, it was humor that won, and the dark chocolate eyes danced with mirth when she answered. “It’s good to have you here, friend. I don’t know what I’d do without you.” Another soft note of laughter and a glance at the younger male, searching for evidence that he’d understood and appreciated her joke. Then— more solemnly— she continued. “—really, though, Goose. For a while there, I was lost without you. And I’m glad to have you both back.”

In the silence that followed these sentimental words, Riddler stepped forward for a more silent exchange of emotion— and then chased it with the very question Valka dreaded she might hear. “After you left,” she began, her voice doing what it could to soften that phrase from the accusation it might’ve otherwise seemed. “Loire stayed here in the Bay. Like me, she seemed to know that you’d return. After a while, though, she started to worry. And I— I don’t know for certain, because she disappeared without a word. But I think she went to find you... to see if she could bring you back to us.” It was the skjaldmær’s turn to extend her muzzle, drawing it lightly across the curve of Riddler’s cheek.

“I’m sorry, Riddler. I wouldn’t have forced her to stay, but if I'd known— if I'd known, I would've tried to reason with her.” The red woman's voice fell an octave, laced with regret.

“It was my job to protect her... and I feel like I've failed. Because I can't keep her safe out there.”