The forceful destruction of one’s home has unpredictable consequences; some bend themselves towards revenge (in this case, that path was impossible), some flee and seek safety as a refugee (who would believe the broad-chested, horned woman was a helpless refugee?), and still others take the logical-to-a-fault mentality and simply… move on. Does Wessex miss her sea-side homeland? Of course. She is logical, not heartless. But the land she grew up in (however briefly) is not the home that exists now, and she has neither army nor knowledge of how to overcome rather unusual obstacles, and so why bother risking life and limb for an emotional connection?

In truth, it is her mother she misses most; the Queen was loved and respected, and most importantly - was unparalleled in battle. Wessex’s tutelage had only just begun when all hell started to break loose, but those lessons were ingrained in the aspiring soldier and kindled something inside the young heir that only grew stronger as time went on. Lagertha would be quite amused, she often thinks, to see her now: horned and orange-eyed and tattooed, and even luminescent sometimes. She’s come far from a simple, tomboyish filly who wantded to be just like her badass mother.  

The soldier in her is unsatisfied until she knows every inch of her current home, and so her hooves wander all over the often punishing terrain, enduring biting winds that still sweep down from the peaks, hitting some of the slopes and making her forget Spring was well upon them. Her lungs are slowly adjusting to her frequent climbs, and she’s come to find the cool of the nights are far more conducive to sleeping than heat is. The smell of a wolf piques her interest first, and unsure it it is a loner or a pack come to pick away the springtime babies, Wessex must do more investigation. Imagine her surprise to find the wolf at a mare’s side, and the mare surrounded by a sheet of ice.

How she got to the center of it is rather mysterious, but Wessex simply gazes on the situation, her gaze flickering back and forth between the small wolf, the mare with an amused expression, and the ice. She didn’t seem stuck… there were no cries for help from the stranger’s lips, no sense of panic. So instead of asking whether or not the mare is ok (she clearly is ), Wessex keeps to neutral statements until she can properly suss out the situation. “Well. That is certainly a hazard of living here.”