The final wretched scream that brutally explodes from the tigress blood it sounds like blood like she tore her throat just screaming and screaming and is like a steel needle shoved through Imonada's eardrums; she swears they burst because an artillery shell goes off in her skull boom there goes the brain lights out. Her head needs a good violent shake afterwards, but she quickly overcomes the daze. Thank the gods for small mercies, her almost machine-like ability to compartmentalize and assign priority to emotions having kept her alive thus far... even if that wasn't always reliable, often forcing her to grapple with her fear or hatred or sadness, forcing them into submission, so that she may remain useful; because nothing struck such existential terror into her like not being needed. Wanted. To even humor such a thought was like a reeling out of control and plunging into paralyzing bleakness while the means to process it were left unearthed in their grave.

She remains back as the final blows rip the goddess apart, the severing of her lifeforce felt harshly; somewhere in all that rotted power was remnants of the divine, fossil imprints from another time. When Earth casts the shredded body into nothingness with his magic, Imonada looks over at Erthë and assesses her; upon seeing that she has taken the herbs, she feels it permissible to take her assisting energies elsewhere, especially as several others more equipped were now tending to the crippled filly. Grabbing more medicine in one fell swoop, deliberately inhaling its tangy and pungent odor to mask the acrid stink of charred flesh and rivers of oil, she heads off to visit others teetering at the edge of consciousness. Careful navigation and a light, sturdy frame help her avoid the receding tar and any remaining flame patches. Each wounded she attends to gets a pile sufficient enough to stir them and her own brand of patience to confirm they swallow enough, as she ponders what it really means now that matter has broken down and merged two realms, even if for a finite window of time. The demon gods may have been slain and their diseases wiped clean, but she was watching the black gore seep into the sand. Was it really over? "Something there is that doesn't love a wall," she grumbles like a bitter old cat, heading off to find Resplendence again. Hopefully they could gather all their herdmates easily.

The sound of Mauja's gut-wrenching sobs reach her from behind a swaddle of thick wool, her head sinking down into dark cold depths as blood rushes back into her extremities and leaves in its wake a deep seated tiredness. She registers the mourning dimly and the pain in his cries makes her stomach burn with the vague threat of retching, but she says nothing, and remains upon the scene to help, despite her desire to crawl into a hole and sleep forever.