Torleik almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of yet another horse joining this ridiculous fray. A woman was down and in need of assistance, assistance he was more than willing to provide, and this was turning into a giant clusterfuck. Any mirth he might have had upon seeing yet another mare materialize from over the swelling of the hills in front of him disappeared when this new one, all awash in a drowning mane of light colored hair, came at him with a dagger drawn.
Normally Torleik was a calm man. Normally he would try to reason with those around him. But this was not a normal time for him. That man existed when his home was still out there, when his people could still welcome him back to his own hearth, back to their community; when his friends could still talk and laugh with him, when his family could still visit and share their pride over his accomplishments.
That was no more, and the man he used to be had barely survived that loss. It wished to survive no more tests or trying events.
Anger erupted deep inside of him, anger that he could not simply HELP someone in this damned place; anger that this first bitch sought to drive him away; anger especially at the insult that approaching him with a drawn dagger flung in his face. Charging forward a few steps, Torleik lowered his head in preparation for a fight. He had no qualms fighting women. Women in his culture were respected for their strength and their ability to fight - they were true sheildmaidens. If this one wanted a battle, she would get it.
"You think carefully before you take one more step, mare," he snarled, the gravity in his tone nearly crushing. In a move that was highly fortuitous for the one with the overflowing mane, she sheathed her dagger - in her tail, he did not fail to note - and spoke to him. She was a healer. He was about to tell her healers did not approach, weapons drawn, but a deep, world-weary, wise male voice commanded calm over the situation.
Torleik looked up to see an old stallion, dark black for the most part, with a white mane and tail fringed with red. Sanguine eyes shone out from his black face, crimson eyes just like... Shaking his head subtly to clear it, he kept his battle-ready stance as he listened to this fellow stag. Frankly Torleik was just glad to not be the only one in possession of balls that could be removed by these psychotic women at this point. The old one ordered that the healer should help the mare in the water, and Torleik stood his ground. "Not with that dagger in your tail you won't," he grunted. "Drop it, and then I let you near."
His attention diverted to the stallion again, Torleik snorted derisively. "This I can see, old one. My offers of help are met with shrillness and weapons," he said, his gaze harshly snapping back to the two standing mares. The fellow male seemed like a battle-worn warrior by the scars on his body - a body that was injured, Torleik noted. He could respect that. "I was here to find peace at the water's edge," he replied. "Peace is, apparently, not something to be found here." He eyed the old soldier, seeing the grey hairs on him, and wondered about this man's past. What fights had he seen? What losses had he suffered? What great victories had he won? Deciding he would treat this veteran with respect, he spoke once more. "My name is Torleik, sir. What is yours?"
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