“A steady pace in tha beginning ought ta serve us well then,” Yvonne decided, delighted with Vixen Crowsfoot’s admittance, finishing her sentence with, “until ye find yer feet. Once ye feel comfortable in tha saddle we can have some real fun.” There was an honesty to Vixen’s tone that pleased Yvonne, a reluctant honesty - the difficult kind. Nothing won her loyalty like honesty from another. She was all too familiar with travellers seeking safety in numbers alongside Abel’s caravan, people who were born in the saddle. Why they’d galloped across the morning countryside just yesterday, a lovely sprint.

Those people won Yvonne’s derogatory remark award and the grand prize of her respect for them at an all-time low.

“Speaking of saddles …” the half-and-halfling collected Mead’s from the hay-strewn stable floor, placing a soft padding over him firstly before laying the saddle across his back, fastening it underneath his belly. She tended to his bit and bridling - thankfully he had settled down as Yvonne had settled too. Those headbutts must have been working their magic. His reins the handler offered to Vixen with fond smile.

“I be worth two Coronay gold pieces per hour, but we both know this be a rite of passage Abel expects of me. Yer as much ta look after me as I be of ye,” Yvonne stated, considering their circumstances, continuing, “so let’s agree on one piece per hour, unless ye fancy tha fine art of haggling me down further?” Her silver eyes held her pink stare, lifting her chin slightly and raising her brows. The offer was there.

“Yer people be worth every silver and copper ye have, I be sure,” the wily trader supposed, softly stroking the depression below her lower lip, feeling centered and secure in herself now that she’d had a good cry.

“Do we have an agreement, Lady Vixen?” Yvonne raised the question, prepared to shake on it once again.