The Basin bores her.

They do not come to face her boldly, always skirting around her, and she knows why. She is not unaware of their differences, not when she has spent hours staring at her brother, memorizing the shape and slope of his features and how they differ from Mama. There is no fear or shame in the caverns of her heart, only judgment. They are cowardly, with how they dance around the subject as if she is unaware of her mutations. As if she has not owned and worshiped this body she was born in, this caricature that she holds to the heavens with pride. She does not need their love or adulation. Hardly understands what it is. She knows only the way her twin adores her, the fierce possessive love she holds for him in return. They don't need acceptance from others, they have each other. That's all Romina will need until the earth decays and her mortal body collapses into nothing.

Nevertheless she is learning. It is a slow and frustrating process, but one she tries to handle with grace. Mama is a good teacher, in that way. Romina so rarely sees her without the shawl of matriarchy that she only knows to embody grace and poise, rather than embracing the gangle and gaggle of limbs that curse most foals. But she is not most foals. Her tri-toed hooves do not stumble and falter as much as the other newborns, the earth is a solid presence beneath her feet. So she adventures, though it will surely cause her mother heart problems. Alice is never far, and Romina is unaware of the dangers that lurk on the distant horizon.

She only knows that the Basin houses those who speak too softly, watch with wary eyes and held tongues. Romina isn't old enough to be truly insulted, but she is perceptive enough to dislike it. To seek company elsewhere, especially if it means getting out of that wretchedly cold atmosphere. Her bones are too light, her frame too petite, to offer much protection against the chill. Here in the meadow, where there is sunlight and color - color, like the opal sheen of her horn nubs, the ones that made Mama look sad and nostalgic - she does not feel confined. She is but a child ruling over an imaginary kingdom, prancing about with her satellite ears and her ill-fitting confidence, happier than she ever is in the far reaches of the north.

"talk"