Any.

[Volcan]

Volcan

Burn slow, burning up the back wall
Long roads, where the city meets the sky
Most days, most days stay the sole same
Please stay, for this fear will not die

A waste.

That's all she has been, since she was born. A waste. Of space, of air, of existential material. And she knows it - or rather, she feels like it. She feels within her that bile-ish burning of out-of-placeness and disappointment. But it's only a feeling, with no direction behind it. The woman has no clue where to direct the feeling of uselessness, and has no idea from where it stems.

She has no idea it's because her mother, who died because of her, is alive again, and roaming; coming closer and closer to meeting her with every rise of the sun. She has no idea.

Her arrival to the field is begrudging and spiteful. She hates it here. Volcan was born in the Before Beqanna, and has never forgiven it for the way it changed and moulded itself. Nothing is the same, and the young three year old holds that against the land itself. She still remembers being birthed from the literal sands of the Deserts, coming into being in such a way that nothing organic should. Alone, bleating, and in the middle of a bleak kingdom with little in the way of hospitable land. She remembers; and that feeling of not belonging has tagged right along with the memory, despite her efforts to destroy it. 

When a stallion with wandering eyes and drool practically falling from his mouth comes too close to the tall, homely mare, Volcan reacts. Like Scorch, she reacts, the impulse barely even worth consideration or thought. With her teeth bared and her ears pinned, the mare sends an onslaught of pebbles towards the leering stallion with enough speed to make him think twice before coming towards the silver girl with such intentions. When the man turns and leaves, kicking towards her indignantly, Volcan snorts and tumbles her straggly mane.

"Asshole!"