06-22-2016, 09:31 PM
I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
The silence drives her out, out past the trees that seem to grow higher with every passing day, out past the fire-scarred lines, and out into the rest of the world. The steel-gray mare breaks into a canter to warm up, and as she passes the Beach marker, turns up her speed, until she is in a heart-pounding gallop.
Lagertha needs the wind in her face, she needs to feel it whipping her mane into a tangled mess, feel the ground give way beneath her hooves, and focus on nothing more than the internal rhythm of running. Good fucking lord, it feels good to stretch her legs like this! She laughs, and though no one can hear her, it almost seems as if the weight of the thorned mantle lessens, falling away with every bead of sweat that is hurled off her hindquarters. It is a long way to the Field from the Jungle, and even Lagertha cannot maintain that speed the whole way. At some point she slows, but in the cool autumn air, the evidence of her exertions take a while to fade away - and she looks nothing more than some wild woman when she enters the Field.
This is nothing, of course, compared to what she can make herself look like. But there’s no point in scaring the ladies off yet. Her measured gaze lingers on the groups in the field, taking note of the stallions and oh - there’s Yael - she wouldn’t put herself in competition with the Desert magician. Instead, Lagertha turns to a buckskin mare who seems to be by herself (a rarity, given the season and the plethora of stallions who seem to pounce on every single female who prances by. She’ll never understand). Sweat-stained, but steady and with the look of someone who knows what she wants (and usually gets it), the Iron Queen approaches Odezsa.
She attempts a joke, which is a very rare event. Sarcasm comes easy. Jokes do not. “If you’re a fan of ants, we’ve got a lot in the Jungle. Though some of them might kill you if given the chance.” She offers the lady a slight smile, and chuckles dryly. “I’m Lagertha. Who are you?”
Lagertha needs the wind in her face, she needs to feel it whipping her mane into a tangled mess, feel the ground give way beneath her hooves, and focus on nothing more than the internal rhythm of running. Good fucking lord, it feels good to stretch her legs like this! She laughs, and though no one can hear her, it almost seems as if the weight of the thorned mantle lessens, falling away with every bead of sweat that is hurled off her hindquarters. It is a long way to the Field from the Jungle, and even Lagertha cannot maintain that speed the whole way. At some point she slows, but in the cool autumn air, the evidence of her exertions take a while to fade away - and she looks nothing more than some wild woman when she enters the Field.
This is nothing, of course, compared to what she can make herself look like. But there’s no point in scaring the ladies off yet. Her measured gaze lingers on the groups in the field, taking note of the stallions and oh - there’s Yael - she wouldn’t put herself in competition with the Desert magician. Instead, Lagertha turns to a buckskin mare who seems to be by herself (a rarity, given the season and the plethora of stallions who seem to pounce on every single female who prances by. She’ll never understand). Sweat-stained, but steady and with the look of someone who knows what she wants (and usually gets it), the Iron Queen approaches Odezsa.
She attempts a joke, which is a very rare event. Sarcasm comes easy. Jokes do not. “If you’re a fan of ants, we’ve got a lot in the Jungle. Though some of them might kill you if given the chance.” She offers the lady a slight smile, and chuckles dryly. “I’m Lagertha. Who are you?”
Lagertha
Warrior Queen of the Amazons