12-02-2017, 09:27 AM
Starlin
Starlin drinks from the warm stream, her dark mouth twisted in displeasure. This water is lukewarm and tastes of clay; it is very different from the crisp snowmelt in her northern homeland. Scowling, she shakes a few drops of water away as she raises her head, and the grulla mare takes in the view around her.
She has come to find recruits for Nerine, to see if there are any men or women willing to devote themselves to the granite land. The seaside realm is not Starlin’s birthplace but she has grown to love it as though it was; she knows that others will feel the same. It is her task, now, to find those others.
Her blue grey eyes rove over the horses around her.
Many she disregards instantly; too old, too young, too weak. Her tendency to see the world as black and white (without shades of grey) allows her to be efficient. It is possible that she passes over diamonds amid the rough, but she would rather not waste her time on something that might turn out to be just a bit of broken glass.
A loud exclamation shatters the quiet murmur of field conversation, and Starlin spins to identify the source. There is no hesitation in her movement, she turns and tenses, prepared to react to whatever might have caused the noise.
It is only a mare telling off a stallion, she finds, though it had seemed louder as a result of their nearness, and the clatter of pebbles that are just now falling to the ground from where they have struck the stallion and surrounding fauna. They’re from the mare, the tobiano filly realizes, and her head tilts curiously.
“I’m guessing you didn’t know him?” She asks, her voice pitched to carry over the distance between them, though she is also coming closer. She stops a comfortable speaking distance away, close enough to hear, but far enough away that she has full range of motion and respects the roan’s personal space.
She has come to find recruits for Nerine, to see if there are any men or women willing to devote themselves to the granite land. The seaside realm is not Starlin’s birthplace but she has grown to love it as though it was; she knows that others will feel the same. It is her task, now, to find those others.
Her blue grey eyes rove over the horses around her.
Many she disregards instantly; too old, too young, too weak. Her tendency to see the world as black and white (without shades of grey) allows her to be efficient. It is possible that she passes over diamonds amid the rough, but she would rather not waste her time on something that might turn out to be just a bit of broken glass.
A loud exclamation shatters the quiet murmur of field conversation, and Starlin spins to identify the source. There is no hesitation in her movement, she turns and tenses, prepared to react to whatever might have caused the noise.
It is only a mare telling off a stallion, she finds, though it had seemed louder as a result of their nearness, and the clatter of pebbles that are just now falling to the ground from where they have struck the stallion and surrounding fauna. They’re from the mare, the tobiano filly realizes, and her head tilts curiously.
“I’m guessing you didn’t know him?” She asks, her voice pitched to carry over the distance between them, though she is also coming closer. She stops a comfortable speaking distance away, close enough to hear, but far enough away that she has full range of motion and respects the roan’s personal space.
grit & grace.