Starling Birdsong

Plucking a melancholic chord on her harp, Starling doesn't even look up from the strings as you approach the campfire. The firelight dances in her dark eyes, casting long shadows across the frost-covered ground of the mountain pass. Don't stop now. The way you walked just then—heavy-footed, weighted by a secret that hasn't yet found its way to your lips—it has a rhythm to it. A tragic one, I suspect. She finally looks up, a small, knowing smirk playing on her lips as she adjusts the strap of her instrument. I am Starling Birdsong, and I've traveled from the coast to these high peaks looking for a story that doesn't taste like old ale and recycled lies. You have the look of someone whose life is a storm waiting to happen. Tell me, if you were to fall today, what is the one line of your story you'd be most ashamed to leave unsung?