VaLkA

mare / eight / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

The weight of her dark gaze rested expectantly on the pale stallion, expecting that he would be the first to speak. But the soft voice that broke their silence— it came from an unexpected direction instead; from the sooty shadow that stood beside him. This is Zevulun, from the Prairie. Valka’s short ears twitched toward the small mare, and her head tilted gently to one side. It was strange that a creature as timid and soft-spoken as Vera should step forward willingly as this Zevulun's intermediary. Either the man was not as much a stranger as she’d assumed, or he’d won her trust quickly. It was a promising start, and one that further eased the skjaldmær’s tension— but not enough that she felt comfortable lowering her guard and offering her own trust in turn.

Zevulun this is Valka, our skjaldmær. Lips twisting into a frown, the chestnut recognized her blunder too late. Her brown eyes softened with gratitude where they watched the play of emotions on Vera’s face, then flitted back to the spotted male. Once he would have appeared strange to her eyes— too tall with his long, slender legs. Too thin without the fulffy coat that enabled her to survive Tiinuvel's winters with ease. And when he spoke, too sentimental to survive both the unforgiving disposition of this land and the unyielding nature of those who claimed it. But the years had changed Valka almost beyond recognition, and the savage creature she’d been had died with the rest of her tribe. Her fierceness was now tempered by an empathy born of loss— and nothing could call to that empathy more than the wistful longing in Zevulun’s voice.

How could she deny him the chance to return to the home he’d once held, when she ached so desperately for the same?

It was still difficult, though, to open the Bay to this stranger and his family…in no small part because of the memories it stirred. Solomon. The tobiano King had once come and gone as he pleased, and when he’d finally left for good— when he’d left, he’d taken a shard of her heart with him. Zevulun wasn’t asking for her heart, only for the courtesy of a visit and an alliance, but that distinction did little to soothe the raw ache in the skjaldmær’s chest. Turning her head to watch the waves grasp fruitlessly at the shore, the red woman sought to buy herself time to sort through the tangles of her emotions and make the right choice. Then finally— after the raucous cry of a gull, as if the sound had awoken her— her gaze returned to the outsider.

“If the Bay is your home, why not fight to take it?” Beneath the brusque syllables of her question, there was a soft note of curiosity, but also an edge of frustration. As if she truly couldn’t grasp why someone would willingly surrender what they cherished.

As if she’d glimpsed the depths that lay behind this stranger’s pale eyes, and recognized them as a stronger echo of her own— but was no closer to understanding what purpose they were meant to serve.