What Gaucho needed most, was simply the absence of thought. It was the constant buzzing of Mara in his brain, that was slowly driving him mad. She flooded his primitive mind with image after image: sands and storms; a mare lost at sea; a quiet healer; a crystalline rose; a flash of lightning; an endless night and trees bleeding light; wraiths and a sickness...The bombardment threatened to throw off the dun's balance, as his inability to multitask left him nearly helpless during Mara's fits of imagery-overload. Gaucho could sense his bonded's frustration, as she constantly worked to force him to remember a life that seemed simply illusory. I no remember! he would mentally shout, forcefully shaking his antlered-skull to try and break her mental hold upon his mind. At this, she would often hiss and sulkily retreat higher in his antlers, biding her time until later, when she would try again.

The absence of thought - that's what Gaucho needed. But moreso, he needed the feeling of flesh pulling against his own. The feeling of teeth and hooves grating against his skin, of his spiked-collar coaxing blood out of another: giving him new memories to fill the dark void in his primitive mind. Maybe he would find an opponent with the ability to knock him unconscious. It was a rare occasion for Gaucho to be bested in battle, although on this evening, he would welcome the unconsciousness of defeat. To sink into blackness where not even Mara's probing mind could disturb him, would be a blessing.

Flying high where the air grew slightly more shallow, forcing his lungs to fight for oxygen, Gaucho haphazardly landed in the Heavenly Fields. Although the sun had dipped below the horizon, warm pinkish tones still filled the skies, creating a soothing and relaxing atmosphere. Yet Gaucho was neither soothed, nor relaxed. The air was mild - warm, but not uncomfortably so, and a light breeze stirred playfully amongst the grasses. All of this - the gently waves of flowers dancing in the warm glow of the evening - Gaucho found annoying. He wanted biting cold - or hellishly hot. He wanted his body to fight merely enduring the elements - not to be pampered by the scenery and pleasant weather.

With a frustrated grunt, Gaucho swept a black wing across the grasses, hoping that the harmless and heatless flames on his wings would set fire to the grass. Of course no such thing happened, and so the dun resorted to thrashing and bucking at the foliage, decapitating as many flowers as possible. Jaws gaping wide, revealing oddly white teeth, the WildFire bellowed loudly and angrily into the still of the evening, his call echoing across the empty fields. It was a sound of pain and anguish, of frustration and need. It spoke of the remedy to his misery, the elixir that could finally soothe his soul, if only temporarily.

Fight me! Beat me!