It comes as a shock, though it probably really shouldn’t have. The automatic reaction she has when she is asked about her past, causing her to wince. The conversation had started out rather merry, Wichita was glad to hear that she was a welcome addition to the herd. “Well then ain’t that the berries! I sure am glad ta be here.” She was more than glad really, it was what she secretly wanted, deep down. Just to be a part of a herd, to be welcome, and wanted. It was a feeling she was rather unfamiliar with, of course her mother had loved and wanted her, but this was entirely different.
The Queen shares a bit about herself as well, though perhaps not answering all of Wichita’s questions. Like the one about her scar. She had never heard what exactly had happened for the lovely paint to receive it, and she was unsurprisingly curious. Her mood soured from its otherwise shining brilliance, slipping into a somber quiet.
“Well,” she began, walking a bit, perhaps some movement would ease the telling, “I’m not from Beqanna originally of course, you know that. I grew up some ways from here, round about the parts of Petrolia.” The funny words slipping from her mouth make no difference, her tongue is used to the curve and pattern of their sounds. “My- my mother raised me in a fair size herd, ours not near nice a place as this un. Mos’ly flat grasslands, and some mountains to one side. Not really mountains though, not like there are here. My father was the lead, as mos’ fathers are I guess. He was different though, not kind, not like Jason or Mast.” she supplied comparison as though one might be needed. “He really liked ta be the boss, I guess you could say. He wanted ta be the ‘Big Man large and in charge’ needed to have the best and biggest herd. Well, where I come from that means havin’ the most and purdiest mares. Even if that means breeding within’ yur own stock.” Her eyes were kept straight ahead, perhaps an attempt to look like she was watching where she was going. Truth is, she wasn’t she hardly saw what was in front of her at all. “I-I didn’t want ta do that,” her voice cracking and becoming more strained as she struggled to speak past the lump in her throat. “So I thought I’d fight him for once, but I’ve never been any good for a fight. Momma stepped in though, just as things were bout ta get bad. Now she’s gone mor’n like, and that’s all my fault.”
The image of her mother’s face that day would never leave, the whites of her eyes staring back at her in alarm. She had only one parting word from her, to carry with her throughout the rest of her years.
‘Run’