She blends. It is a skill studied and perfected, long hours of learning what to do to blend even in a herd of galaxy-colored foals. Compared to her foster-siblings, Sloene had been plain; no magics, no funny colors, not excessively tall or short or fat or anything. The draining of magic from Beqanna had made it even easier, as suddenly so many more of them had been like Sloene. Plain. But they don’t blend. They’re off, so many of them, unused to being ‘normal’. Some have adjusted, some work hard to earn back their magics, and some are resentful and so obvious in their resentment.
Sloene avoids the resentful ones – they seem dangerous to her.
She’s dangerous enough by herself (Killer! Killer! Killer!) still rings in her head so many years later.
The grulla mare has blended so well that she doesn’t have a home yet, though she left her childhood home many years ago. Oh, she’s had casual friendships, traveled with others enough to not be a solitary psychopath, but she hasn’t made any lasting relationships. She hasn’t fulfilled the potential that Nera claimed to have seen in all of them, and it’s begun to weigh on her.
She supposes it’s time for a change.