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?