in a holding pattern // to find myself

[Starlin]

STARLIN grit and grace. Raised by a doting mother, Starlin has never felt unloved. There was emptiness, of course, the heavy silence that followed any inquiry about her father and then, later, her twin. One was gone before her birth, and the second stayed too briefly. Mother has never seemed concerned about their disappearances, but then: Mother is never concerned about anything. She has filled that silence by keeping buys – long runs down the beach, swimming in the icy sea. Now that winter is creeping into Beqanna, she finds her way down to the Field, old enough at last to be taken seriously (or so she hopes). Starlin had reached her adult height this past summer, but is still clear from the leanness of her figure and the bright innocence in her eyes that she is still very much a child. A confident one though, one who walks through the trees as though she owns the place, her curious blue-grey eyes flicking from one interest to the next. One she lingers on, a pale mare alone, and after a moment of deliberation, she decides to approach. The perlino mare looks as harmless as a stranger can, and Starlin stops beside her with a smile. “Hey there,” She says, bobbing her head in a polite greeting. “I’m Starlin. What’s your name?”