All legs and no sense of jest written across her perfectly sculpted face, Sage still feels the sting of many injuries. Whatever that happened to that little chocolate bitch is not known by her; all the champagne colored beauty is aware of is that Mirage is still queen here.

And a damn good one, at that.

Whatever aching body she held, no matter the way her gait faulted, the golden girl is proud of being able to defend the home of such a great leader. The den of Dragons, that is what the World's Edge had become, but not just because of the leader and her main squeeze (which, for your information, the beauty has no idea of just yet). The inhabitants of the World's Edge all had scales and claws and breathed fire, just not maybe in the way one might expect. Even the pristine image of girlish beauty to be seen in our palomino warrior can be twisted into the beastial vengeance of an angered drake. Make no mistake here, the World's Edge is well-guarded.

Still, the mare is more than a little disappointed that the challenge for her home came at a time when she was literally in the middle of getting what was rightfully hers until proved otherwise. Some day, she would have to fight tooth and hoof for her old position as WingLeader, but Sage is now wise the the threat of the North. Their icy breath prickles from above, causing her to be more or less irritated each and every day. Impatient for action to be taken. They may have impressive numbers, but even they were not able to conquer this home.

The Qian's heart outnumbered the hordes of brainless idiots inhabiting the North. You can always gather more strong hearted people to your cause, but, frankly, you just cannot do anything about stupid.

The problem here lies in the fact that stupid breeds quickly, from Sage's apt experience, and the idea of battling 50 buffoons running with swords taped to their heads would be terrifying to anyone. As a result, the golden beauty rushes about the forest, her body dodging tree trunks by mere inches as she races through, feathers brushing against the rough bark, hooves digging deep into the moss, the mists swirling about her legs in a mystical dance. Sharp, shuttering breaths ring out; this practice has been going on since early morn, well before the sun rose above the horizon. The lithe frame of the golden beauty is laden with sweat, making her dual-toned and smelling like the salty sea.

After a few more paces, the mare is nearly brought face to face with the ocean, her legs locking, hooves skidding. Rocks fly off the edge of an abrupt fall, and the mare simply flares her wings in response. Nostrils flair, air flushing from her chest, lowering her neck toward the ground to let out a shuddering breath.

Training is difficult, even if it has been your life for years.

@[Rishima] and @[Brisa]