The silence endures. I wonder if she's uncomfortable with it? Most birds I know tend to be raucous, but perhaps she is like me, and is comfortable to wallow in noise absence. I'll never quite know because soon enough we're interrupted by a rather overbearing little filly. Although she is capable of speech, she is not entirely capable.

My ears twist in a flurry to try and catch everything she trumpets. She did mention it being cooler, which I hadn't noticed until she spoke then. I glanced around me as if expecting to find something within the air itself. Ridiculous.

Soon enough my attention is drawn back to the curiously colored girl. She's asking for a drawing of herself. In my surprise at her approach the artwork of my gryphon had splattered into the tundra, quickly staining what snow remains. It had served its purpose anyway, eliciting a pleased purr from the birdcat. It had been a pleasant sound.

I raised my tail once more, but the ink was slow to travel free and when it did it came blotchy and broken. Quickly my construction of a horse with clouds in her coat scrambled into the ground. I shake my head, at a loss for my loss of talent. I should probably care more, but for the moment I'm just embarrassed and grumpy about it. My head continues when she asks for a name. I sigh faintly, all to use to this route of the conversation. I may appear at first charming and intriguing, but once they know, they turn on me or they leave me. No one knows what to do with someone that cannot talk, it makes them uncomfortable or dominant. Even worse I have no drawings to hopelessly bridge that gap with.

I feign shyness, hoping to hide the truth for now. It would be nice to have some company for more than a few breaths, even if it is a rowdy filly.

Not soon after this exchange ends does another arrive. I catch sight of her before the collision, but all the same my flesh ripples with contained flight. I hadn't expected her to actually slam into the tree. Is she ill of the brain?

She glances around sheepishly and that's when I notice the strangeness of her pelt as well. As the vines seem to curl and move across her body I take an unconscious step forward, my ears tilting in obvious intrigue. What is she? Cirrus' coat is just as splendorous, but it is lost on the dullness of today's skies. What interesting company I've come across today.

Showing me know better signs of being inept, Poppy scuffs the ground and compliments the scraggly, half dead tree. I raise a 'brow quizzically, snorting quietly to myself as I draw back into my space. They may be pretty, but they are strange.

Kindly and calmly Merakerr begins to speak. Her tone is enchanting and it weaves in an interesting way. I'm quite a fan of accents. Not having a tongue for myself I often hang on the words of others, it was one of the reasons Roanne and his home appealed to me so much. I smile unknowingly up at her, ink slowly regathering into the gryphon that I'm admiring.

The rowdy, sky filly is distracted momentarily by the vine-girl. Poppy, she names herself. I hunch back into myself, knowing all too soon I will gather all of the eyes. Now that everyone has met everyone, I am the only one who remains unnamed, unwelcoming amongst this gaggle of bright, cheery girls. I am a dark stain on their bright faces. I feel hopelessly drab and dreary. Worse, they may come to think me rude. The image of shyness can only last so long and I fear my truer self is cracking through the surface of feigned bashfulness. I look away.

I toy with the idea of running away. I resist however, whether it is fear that freezes my legs or the fact that I crave this social interaction as equally as I abhor it, I cannot say.

The Poppy girl beckons my head to turn back as she addresses me. Art-maker she says. I smile at that nickname, it being an interesting one. What is my name they all wonder. Truly I can not always remember it myself, so often have I been called other things. The memory of my parents slips further from my grasp with each waking day. Their faces are blurred, features indistinguishable and voices nothing but my own internal banter now. If I completely lose them, will I also love myself?

Childish, I admonish with an internal frown. My parents do not make me. They named me, but a name does not make me. I've had five hundred names by now but I have always been me.

All the same, it bothers me when I fail to remember it. Today is not one of those days, but it doesn't matter because I can never tell them anyway. It's hard to retain your memories when you cannot share them. I will likely die early, too overwhelmed by the burdens of life which I cannot unload unto others, much less friends. I will shrivel up and wither away, consumed by self-inflected turmoils. How enthralling.

The gryphon speaks once more. Immediately I am raptly listening, ears straining as her tones are like the gentle caress of rain on forest leaves to my ears. I almost smile with delight at her accent, so nearly giddy am I. What she actually has to say is just as intriguing. Ink.

That word. I don't think I've ever heard it spoke by anyone else, except the faces of my blood I have begun to lose. I stiffen, head rising like an alarm. My eyes grow wide and I take careful steps towards the gryphon, engrossed with this fascinating creature. Ink, from octopi she says. I had never dreamed such could exist. I had always thought my name to be rather meaningless or some fanciful or made up word for the dark water that ebbs around me. I've no way of knowing what the substance truly is, or how my parents came by the word - they were travelers, perhaps they knew of man and his paper and his, ink.

To believe that such a substance, such a word, had been here all along though, surprised me. I had never been too concerned with the ocean, or water in general. I was generally avoidant of bathes ad I had lived in the Tides for a time. Water and ink don't mix, so to say. The waves of the sea always consumed my drawings and swimming always leeched the substance from my mane and tail, making me feel oddly thin and weak. What was an octopus doing with ink the ocean then? I would have to explore this further some day.

For now though, I must keep these, friends, at least the gryphon to be sure. I need to be truthful, though I still fear their rejection, I have a good feeling about these girls. I have had good feelings before you see, and often times others can surprise you with the cruelty hidden within themselves. I think they may often surprise themselves, but I care little of their surprise when I'm their victim.

I nod up at the gryphon, hoping they might understand somehow that Ink is my calling - though I am use to so many other names what does it truly matter? I stick out my tongue then, and wiggle it between my lips with first a comical, then a morose expression. What a useless tool in my mouth, it can do nothing but flap around, turning dry in this cold air.

My tail stays motionless this time. Beneath all of this I am deeply troubled by the failings of my drawings today. I am still wondering if it is the lack of communicating lately, but it's something more than that, as I feel so tired, so weak, so hot even in this cold bubble of Merakerrs'. I think it is best to save my energy and my magic for now. Perhaps it's running out forever? It never has, but I am young still, what do I truly know of myself?

They all seem to voice the realization at once. I cringe a little, half expecting the laid-back ears and clicking teeth. What else does one like I deserve? Weak, useless, broken.

I glance away, ashamed.

The voice of Poppy pulls me back. Kindly she tells me what no one else ever has, not even Jerontope, my brief and only friend.

"It's ok if no speak. Talk with pictures." My heart lurches into my throat and I smile wanely, eyes holding her within a new and affectionate light. I am bemused also by her words. She speaks as though still a child, but I guess her much older. I feel a kinship blossom. Although I have great respect for the spoken word and the many ways in which one can speak, I cannot help but feel drawn to someone who struggles with it.

I want to hug her.

Merakerr leaps down deftly. I am alarmed for a second, a knee-jerk reaction more than anything, but relax after catching myself. She continues to speak her rolling tongue and I nearly lean towards her when she does, still delighted and giddy with it. She takes a black clod and addresses me, all of us.

I nod in response. Yes, I talk with pictures. I smile again, through it is a frail, sad thing. I glance back at my tail, it's hairs dry and crunchy as I've never known them. I flop it forward, my frown deepening as no ink comes from the tips. I glance up at my friends - I think that's what they are now - then to the sun.

Something is definitely wrong. Whether with me or with the weather, something is wrong.