There is no way to prepare oneself for the aftermath of battle.

Some felt loss, some felt triumph; all felt pain. The pain depended on the individual: some would feel the overwhelming pain of loved ones amongst the corpses, some would feel the pain of losing what they so deeply cherished that they would fight to the death for it. Others would feel the pain of their wounds, flesh gaping, air and dirt hungrily invading the crimson life of the individual. Bones grating where they had cracked deep within the tissues of the body, or, for the unlucky ones, sticking out like long, thin gravestones upon the hide. The pain, whichever kind, is unavoidable. If one emerges unscathed, then one's job has not been fulfilled.

And so it was that the shadow-mare limped from the battlefield. Her bodice blended smoothly with the growing darkness save for the scarlet lacerations which marked her as a soldier of this battle. Her right shoulder hurt the most, and it showed as she favored the limb in her walk. Nonetheless, it was a matter of pride for which she held her head high, amber orbs scanning the blackness before her. She had fared worse than this in combat, though not by much - she was out of practice from seasons on her own. This much she would admit, though only to herself. No other would know of her weakness.

Materializing before her was a familiar figure, and one whom she she intended to seek before the beginnings of this skirmish. A pale bodice, the icy blue horn, both courtesy of the Frostheart - where had the shadow-mare's genes come into play? But however different their appearances may be, this flicka was one that she would know anywhere. She had not been in battle, for her hide was unmarked. Was this from cowardice? No, the shadow-mare had taught her daughter better than that! She must have been absent, too late to join the fray. Orange orbs scanned the stallion with her - he was an unknown figure, not that she was surprised. She hadn't had a chance to meet the herd before the onslaught began.

Words pooled in her mind, threatening to spill out into the night. But no. There may be enemies around yet. She would not enjoy their company in her present condition. Drops of her blood left a trail behind her, the ruby liquid coursing from the missing flesh of the nape to mix with the long gash on her left side. Another contusion on her right hindquarter dripped its own trail. And she wouldn't want Snö to be caught up in this madness. She was young, and the shadow-mare had birthed her. It wasn't a particularly mothering instinct, but rather a feeling of unpaid debt for her lack thereof. And so she joined the pair silently, her gaze on her daughter's. There was no touch, there were no words, and yet she had spoken.

[W/C | 493]