until the lion learns how to write

The forest smelled damp as they moved into it, rich with the scent of live things gone to spoil. It was an earthy, grounded sort of smell that while not entirely pleasant at first, quickly faded into the background. This was a place that was alive beneath the surface, twisting and rolling with the souls struggling to exist beneath these boughs. It was not so different from the Crossing, or the majority of places on the Mainland she'd visited, but it did not feel the same as those places. She had never sought to call the Crossing or the Mainland home, the way the Forest might come to be in time.

He spoke of the Savanna and the Bay (the latter of which made her ears perk alertly, though she did not interrupt), and then of other horses she would likely come to meet in time if they had followed him from place to place. She frowned as he spoke of Persephone, but caged her tongue and let him finish.

Lakota had never met Persephone herself, of course, but she'd heard plenty of her grandsire and sire's stories about the war between the islands. About how they'd pushed back against the oppressiveness of her influence, how they'd come and taken what belonged to them. The gray mare had never really considered whether or not her family was good; morality was a luxury when you had to fight the very elements and the creatures in it for survival. She wondered absently if Bacardi felt differently. She imagined he must - surely no stallion that lived his life in the gray area between good and evil would have behaved the way he had - and she was not sure how she felt about it.

She wondered if he'd think less of her for her practicality.

Their path changes as they move up a hill, and Lakota follows, but does not immediately speak. He has again left her with no question to answer, and she tries not to frown. "I do not think she would be happy to have Warsaw's granddaughter living here," she finally murmured, opting to cut to the quick. If he could not accept who she was (though she bore no true blood relation to the once great King), then it would be better for them both to cut their losses here.

Before she grew more attached to the Forest, to him, to the idea of settling down.

Her ears flicked apprehensively, but she met his gaze steadily, drawing a slow breath in. "I was not alive for the war, but I grew up hearing about it. Surely if you are close enough to Persephone's memory, you have your own opinions." She let that settle for a moment, wondering how old Bacardi truly was. She had read him to be about her own age, perhaps slightly younger from his comment about being too young in the Bay, but she knew how impactful stories could be. How loved ones could be.

"I will not forsake them, should it ever come to that," she said more quietly, her voice even. It was unlikely that the roan mare would return and force Bacardi to weed her out, but not impossible; just as it was improbable but not impossible that her father might someday come for her. Ironclad was the only creature in this world that had stayed a constant presence in her life. Her mother had left, as had Vita Nova, and Kvothe, and Arael. Only Ironclad had stayed true to her, and he had always stayed true to his father, which meant that she must do the same. As she would expect any children she might someday have to do as well. "Can you accept that?"

young mare // Mutt // gray // 15 hh