Lost. How have I managed to get myself lost? Xolopitli! What a fool I have become!

The maiden's thoughts are as painful as the prickle bushes that she is currently ploughing through, but she is too stubborn to resort to using her wings to escape them. She deserves to suffer through this minor inconvenience. It had been stupid of her to ignore Osiris' offer. The feathered warrior still didn't know what had possessed her to return to Arto; it was she who had abandoned her doomed people, after all. Man had severed the limbs of her tribe when they struck down her brothers and sisters with their spears. But it had been her tribe's decision to ensure that its heart continued to beat, and so the last cualneci-oquichtin lived on.

It has been a fortnight since the vibrant bird has made her return to this country, and she hasn't made any progress in her endeavour to find the wolf boy. The few equines that she has encountered have not been of much use to the warrior, and so far her only adversary has been the cluster of thistles that she is fighting with now. The purple plant catches at her wings with such persistence that it rivals that of a hungry gull to an easy meal. The cruel vixen lets loose a contemptuous snort at the thought. I'd rather punch a hole through the seagull than have to deal with this nonsense.

With a wrench of one opalescent wing the maiden successfully manages to free herself from the brambles. Rocking back on her chocolate heels, she churns the air with her striped pillars and lets loose a triumphant scream. The call is picked up by the breeze that rolls lazily across the meadow, and the hybrid slams her hooves against the grass as hope begins to fill her. Will the brute and his ringmaster heed her call? Or will some other child come and waste her time?

Emerald ears rapidly flick forwards and back to receive any responses to her ecstatic song. The maiden holds her dark crown high in the air so that her searching eyes do not miss any passing figures. Every fibre of the warrior's being is trained on locating any change in her surroundings. Even her mood has moulded from self-loathing to an urgent interest.

Her strong white-and-blue supports beat against the earth as the bird begins to pace. Normally the dark-hearted chieftess would not allow for any fantasies to trickle through the walls of her mind, but one thought does manage to sneak its way in: Perhaps I am not so lost as I think I am.

"Sed interdum rutrum urna, sed pellentesque sapien tempor in."

{Xolopitli- imbecile.
Cualneci-oquichtin- beautiful warrior.}

@[Tsar']
@[Oxy]