The black and yellow mare is in no particular rush, and takes a moment to consider her options in the Meadow. She has nowhere to be after all. She had forgotten how good it feels to be out of the claustrophobic embrace of the gigantic trees of the Taiga. If she felt guilt at leaving her family behind, it was only fleeting; she had told them she was going, this time, which is more than last time… At least now they wouldn’t wonder. It’s not like she was going to go far, either – she’d come back and visit, to see them all and to see her new brother or sister… but for now, she feels it is time to forge her own path, her own identity. It’s time to find out how she is. She has her roots, good, steady grounding roots – now she wants to know what kind of flower she will blossom into.
 
Beqanna is steeped in winter still, but it does not truly bother her. After all, the frigid winters of Taiga bordered on unbearable; the rest of this land seems entirely more temperate. She cocks her white hind-hoof, and is content to just watch and wait, and think and be.