Valka

mare / sixteen / chestnut pangare / yakut / 13.0 hh

There was a gaping hole inside her, and she let anger fill it.

When she’d fled from Solomon’s side, the skjaldmær didn’t know where she was going. She was without conscious thought; a vessel overflowing with anger and grief. Her instincts recognized the scenery that rushed past her, though, and carried her along a path worn into every muscle by repetition. In happier times, she had come this way with another at her side. And in the dire times that the present spelled, she went alone — fled back to the only thing that remained now that everything else had been taken from her. Not that the Bay had been hers for years; since Falda was still young enough that she’d looked up to meet her mother’s eyes. But Valka — Valka had always belonged to the Bay, and it was time to abandon the frivolities of the heart and go home.

The Cove’s mountains flowed west to east, and the stocky mare followed them. Forest yielded gradually to open grass, and the mountains shrunk until they were little more than jumbled stones scattered across her path. By then, the sun was little more than a sliver visible above the distant trees. The northern lights flamed overhead in shades of emerald and rose, but the sight didn’t move Valka as it once had. Perhaps nothing would move her again. She would exist as a shell of the creature Solomon had made her; a draugr sworn to vengeance for her fallen King. And the islands would run with blood if they must for her to achieve that.

Now far enough within the Bay’s boundaries that she could no longer see the forest, the red woman stopped. Her lungs tore great mouthfuls of air from the cold sky while she struggled to muster her thoughts. All she could see was Solomon, Solomon lying broken on the ground of his own home. There were few so bold as to attack a ruler in the midst of his own kingdom, and on Tinuvel he’d been surrounded by allies — except one. Valka’s small ears flicked back as she recalled mentions of the stallion who’d claimed the Bay in her absence. He was the only one of Tinuvel’s rulers not related to the King directly, and perhaps the only one on the island who might have motivation to harm him.

Tilting her head back, the Yakut screamed a challenge. Every bit of anger and hurt she felt flowed into the sound, carrying out across the tundra and into the impending night. Once announced, however, Valka was not content to simply wait. Instead, she leapt forward, moving with determination and purpose for the first time since news had reached her of the tobiano King’s mortal wounds. If the ruler here sought her out, then they would meet halfway. But if he hoped to hide, then he would find no solace anywhere in the Bay. The skjaldmær had lived in this place long enough to know many of its secrets, and she would drag Fell out of his hole with her teeth if need be.

Of course, there was a dim and distant part of her that understood the Bay’s ruler may have committed no crimes at all. This voice of reason was quiet, however — easily silenced beneath a second and angrier call. Truth be told, Valka would need no reason at all in her current condition to pick a fight. There was enough anger in her — burning in her blood, itching beneath her skin — to act now and concern herself with any consequences later.