Playground

M A R S T O N
ram-horned son of moriarty and starlace

Marston leans into her grooming eagerly – between his horns is a hard place to scratch unless he is nearly the Scratching Tree – and he appreciates the gesture. “My parents?” he repeats as he thinks about it. He has only recently learned that his parents have names of their own, but what they are he doesn’t know. “My Mother is in the Chamber,” he says, not knowing that the grey and white no longer calls that kingdom her home. “It’s high up in the mountains and there are lots of tall pine trees and rocks and streams.” He imagines the place as he speaks, and is pleased to find that the memories have barely faded in the months since he has been there.

“My Father lives there now too, but he didn’t always. He used to be in the Deserts, where I am now. I live with my Aunt. It’s hot and dry and full of soft sand.” Marston loves the Deserts as well as the Chamber – they are the only homes he has known. “Where are your parents at?” he asks, reaching over to tug at a stick that is twined in her short mane. It’s stubborn, and he pulls at it with gritted teeth until he has it out. “Do you live with them?”