Meadow

She hadn't meant to turn and watch them approach. Ingrid didn't often fear those that she met on the crossing. Frigga had granted her extraordinary luck in avoiding the sort of companionship that would require her to defend herself with anything harsher than pointed words, but she knew that the mother would not always be so kind. And so when the weight of the eyes upon her grew heavier and sharper than that of a mildly interested bystander, she yielded to the unspoken pressure and turned her halcyon eyes back to the murky figure.

The pale veneer of icy air was slow to reveal the soul that she'd called out to, and she felt a shiver of unease tapdance down her spine as she watched them saunter forward like a prowling feline, their steps measured and careful in the freshly fallen snow. She shifted without thinking about it, drawing her stray hind leg under her for propulsion and glancing westward, toward the main clearing for a clear path of escape. She was not fast, but she did not need to be. Even in winter, the Crossing was home to any manner of wanderers like herself, beasts to whom the word home had lost all meaning. Most would not twist an ear for the troubles of a stranger, but some had not yet grown calloused to the sound of suffering. Shouting would draw their attention, and eyes were often the enemy of those wishing to keep in the shadows.

Recognition dawns only moments before his voice reaches her ears; long enough for the breath she'd been holding to plume dramatically before her as if she'd secretly been concealing her true nature as a dragon all along. Annoyed with them both - herself for being so easy to startle, and he for daring to startle her in the first place - she frowned and allowed the petite shells of her ears to tip back beneath the thick tangle of her mane.

Even so - scowl and all - Ingrid was glad to see the blood-red stallion. She could walk across the island and find as many new faces as she so pleased, but familiar faces were rare, and those that she might even tentatively call friend were rarer still. As someone who had spent her formative years in a sea of faces so familiar to her that she could recall them perfectly even now, the sense of alienation that came from living in the isles had not yet abated. She belonged about as much as anyone else here, which was to say, not at all.

"Ma'al," she muttered under her breath as she approached, the syllables masquerading as both curse and a greeting... and then softened their bite with a smirk that lingered at the far corners of her mouth. She couldn't remember if the crimson creature had given her permission to nickname him, or if that particular familiarity had come in the days and weeks that followed their conversation. She'd thought of him, and of the peculiar duo that had called that tropical island home often, but had never considered returning. Not even Ma'alruin's company was worth the cacophony of the jungle, the unreasonable terror of swimming, nor the little Níðhöggr that had fled from her rising. Here, at least, the animals she had come to recognize as reptiles were smaller and only grew bold when the sun grew hot and tedious overhead.

His question teased her ears back out of hiding, and she narrowed her eyes in his direction to hide the surprise she felt at the offer. The first time she'd laid eyes on the sanguine stallion, she'd believed him to be an omen of the darkest kind; despite that, she'd tolerated his presence for days after washing ashore on that forsaken beach at the whims of the mother ocean, seeking solace in his company despite her misgivings. Exhaustion and the heat had sapped her strength, finding the weaknesses in her cold-tolerant body and exploiting them to keep her trapped and unhappy on the narrow strip of land they called a beach. She dared not go inland further for fear of both the Jötunn-trees and the risk of having to engage with the prickly colt and his dam again.

In hindsight, she couldn't blame the child for resenting her intrusion, but that didn't stop her from resenting him for resenting her.

Their conversations had danced over topics both heavy and light, but she had come away from the interaction still believing the sanguine stallion an enigma she had not yet solved. His ways were so drastically different from that of her own that she often found herself questioning his decisions, only to realize belatedly that he likely found her just as strange, if not moreso.

"And what of the ermine when the fox grows hungry?" Her head tilted, sending black bangs slithering across her bone-white face, an osprey tilting it's head to pinpoint the direction of it's quarry despite knowing it was outmatched in both size and strength. The friendliness of her first question grows cold, only to warm with humor as she releases the tension with a smile that rolls and twists along the shell-pink of her lips until they crack. "Foxes have been known to eat ermine, after all."