The silver bay mare has never been the best of mother figures, not in the minds of many anyway. She was not gentle and coddling as the likes of Siobhan and Tigerlilly, but neither did she ever imagine herself altogether cruel. She did her best to nurture her children in the best way she knew how, to teach them to fend for themselves and accept nothing less than everything. She tried her best to instill headstrong and determined ambition in her offspring, at least the ones she had been granted the ability to raise.

Skogsra and Sigurdr’s theft had always been sore spots left on her heart to fester. Instead of being able to raise her children to be strong willed and determined like herself, Bjorn had stolen them away far beyond her reach and raised them by the gods only know who. No doubt that damned red mare and the weakling Tigerlilly had some hands in that decision but either way, it left an ire in her that only grew as the years progressed. Perhaps that itself was part of the reason why she tried so fiercely to keep her younger children to herself and search for no assistance from their sires. At least, with the exception of poor, innocent Nycol, she had some control in their outcome. Looking on the empty, defeated eyes of Skogsra now, Nyimara wonders if there was not more she could have done.

Dejection is the best way she can describe her daughter, as though the gentle waves that pool beneath her hooves might cause her to succumb to the knock of the death mare. There is no spirit, no awareness, not even recognition shines in her eyes as the silver haired queen approaches. It is only when the hard nip she places on her beautiful daughter’s shoulder, does she manage to let loose the restraints that hold her deep into despair. ’Móður!’ the anger arises and brings with it a sigh of her own relief. She was not ready to say goodbye to another child in this lifetime. Not yet. ’It’s nice to see you too….’ the pale faced girl begins, the ashes beginning to part in her glacial gaze as once more the fires rise. It is the sneer on her lips however that causes her own fluted ears to tilt backwards and disappear beneath the curling tendrils of her silver white mane. ’Is this how you treat all your children?’ Were it not for the apparent sarcasm, Nyimara might have taken true offense. Instead her own dark eyes glitter as the witch queen lifts her proud head, a callous grin on her own lips. ”It is. But I will forgive your ignorance. After all, I was not given the opportunity to raise you properly.” she replies tartly, tossing her finely dished head to rid her vision field of the long tendrils of her pale forelock.

Her question is met by a guarded reply, one that causes her own brow to raise in suspicion although she does not address it at that moment. Instead she presses her lips firmly together, the muscles in her jaw taunt as she watches her daughter cast a roaming gaze over the ocean from which she had come. It gives her an opportunity to really study the girl grown mare before her.

Skogra was no longer the small filly she had been when Nyimara last saw her. There was no innocence in her blue eyes, no enthusiasm for adventure, not even a hint of the awe that she had once stared up at her mother with. Long gone are the days of gangly young legs and wild tufts of growing mane sticking up in wild disarray down the crimson stain of her neck. Skogsra had grown into a beautiful reminder of just how powerful her relationship with Bjorn had once been. Strong muscles defined well by the feminine arch of her white dusted throat. Long, clean legs held her proportionate body and promised of power hiding behind the veil of beauty. Age has curved her hips and broadened her shoulders, built her for childbirth and the struggles that come with dominance and power. Even the silver blue eyes that each of her children share with Bjorn serve as a reminder of just how cold and distant those windows into the soul could be. Skogsra might be her blood, but Bjorn made damn sure that she would never be her daughter in more than looks alone. ’Damn him’

Her mahogany ears snap forward as again, her long tail twitches against her heels in rising agitation. ”My children know better than to lie to me…” she begins, tilting her head towards Skogsra again as paper thin nostrils flare and the Salem queen inhales the scents brought with it from the stirring zephyrs. Under the thick layers of salt water, cedar, fir and pine, the same milky sweet scent that lingers on all new mothers is present. If it weren't for the subtle swell of her white dusted daughter’s slowly shrinking belly, Nyimara might have missed it or shrugged it off as easy winter grazing. Her dark gaze lingers a moment longer on Skogsra’s abdomen before once more returning to the shielded gaze of blue. ”What happened?” she asks, her usually venomous tones monochrome as the hormonal mare attempts to retain control over her emotions. She had no proof that Bjorn is involved and yet… somehow… in her eyes… this was all his fault.