The echo of their hooves striking stone in rhythmic succession filled the narrow tunnel that guided them back through the old mountain’s ruins. After the first corner, the loud roar of the waterfall that they had left behind became a little less, and Africa’s downy, grey ears lifted from their set back position (they were sensitive, and it was certainly taking awhile longer than one season to acclimatize). It was cold beneath the earth, moisture clung to the walls around them and tiny cracks spilled dribbling rivulets down across their path. She had grown to appreciate the vast dissimilarity to the dry desert peninsula in the south. No longer did salt irritate her skin, nor did dust stain her throat.

She had learned early to count each blessing because guilt had this awful reoccurring presence, and she needed something to balance it.

Laedere spoke along the way, rich of accent, though for one reason or another the dappled mare found it easier to understand this time around. Perhaps she was more relaxed – certainly there was no trace of strain in the smooth, swinging stride of her legs. She considered carefully her friend’s question regarding help around the herd with a sheer smile filling her pallid features. It had not been that long ago that she had proffered to Midas the very same thing – and here she was, sharing the role of Medic, and healing those wounded. Though maybe a very long time ago such a duty had tickled her fancy, many years distracted had clouded that ambition; only now did she realise how more natural she felt in the position – easily more than Diviner or Sultana...

As they slipped deeper through the forest beyond, Africa answered in equally soft tones; the tranquillity around them was a beautiful thing to behold.

"There are many children, Lae..." she laughed, turning her face though not pausing her motion. "I think you have your work cut out for you there. I haven’t really ventured out of the healing class yet, so ther would surely be others who know better. Perhaps you could look for the mare called Drum? She is the Storyteller here." In truth, it was not only the ranks she had still more to learn about... "I have been fine (not a complete lie) working leaves not much time really to consider myself otherwise. Midas is well..."

They had paused in the deepest shade, and it was well because the day had been thus far warm.

"Midas is still Czar – he has been honoured by Helovia’s Gods, been immortalised." It pleased her enormously to fuss over the stallion, and perhaps she did a poor job of masking that fact. A brighter smile still had swept across her face, and saccharine tone purged words freely. "Ghost the Cadavorous leads by his side. She is black and red, with wings and a horn..." She gave the information freely – it was all she really knew.

Africa