burning cities and napalm skies; anyone

[Starlin]

STARLIN grit and grace. While young Starlin is the very picture of loyalty, there has never been any doubt that she has an independent streak. Hyaline is not Nerine’s favorite kingdom of the moment, but there is still value to the mountain realm. They had made a haven up here, Starlin has heard, a land where those who want to learn can do so. She has already ravenously consumed everything her mother had to teach her; she is ready for more. The horses of the north tend to look alike, an odd twist of fate. They are dark horses, splashed with white, a monochrome crew in their sandy grey kingdom. Starlin is no exception, and her grey and white shoulders shiver as they descend the mountain. She’d not have been able to find this path herself, she knows, and she is grateful that this bronze creature had appeared to show her the way. The air around them warms considerably, and Starlin is shaking the last of the dripping ice from her dark mane when the stallion introduces himself. @[Amet]? This was Amet? He doesn’t look strong enough to face down a coyote, let alone a furious Nayl. Has he always looked like this? Surely not. The filly is frowning as she watches him, and an uncomfortably long silence passes before she responds. “I’m Starlin,” she tells him. “I came here to see if you had any fighting teachers. It’s important to learn different styles.” Parroting back what she has been told is easy. She has done that already, watched the Guardians as they sparred, listened to her mother’s tales of great battle of the past. She has observed Nayl’s battle practice, and has kicked a dent the size of her own head into a piece of driftwood. “Are you a fighter?” She hopes not, she truly does. If she has to starve herself to be a fighter, she just might jump into the lake to avoid it.