The inky splotched fellow was instantly turned off by the response he had received from their fallen winter sister. Honey eyes slide over in a side glance, capturing him within the pitless pools and taking note of swift change within his features. Softened azure orbs turned hard with cooling glint, Midas couldn’t help but wonder, ‘had the lady stuck at a tried and tested self-esteem?’ Whiskers of age was apparent, and it shamed him in the slightest of ways that such a heartless elder male existed. Like a youthful colt without rein upon temper, the elder equine let words fly free absent thought.

Midas didn’t bother wasting precious energy on reacting to an easy death sentence that was so hastily came upon after only two words, bleached plume slapped against his right haunch before rocketing to the left as if snagging a frustrating fly from his body; it was the only show of irritation that revealed itself thus far. Focus on their retreating company fell away, and instead he listened to Mauja, who had decided to speak words that echoed his own heart in the moment, "Sometimes you have to hold a rose towards the light despite its thorns. Come on, bud', we've got a prickly mare to save." a soft snort vibrated his tones, with the hints of a responding smile twitching the corners of his dark lips up.

Their moment faded and the challenge of concern seeped in, stepping forward Midas trailed behind Mauja, a deep frown replacing his normal pleasantries. She looked more dead than alive. With little effort he shoved pity and all trivial emotions away, she didn’t need them right now; and frankly, neither did he. Following example, he also pushed under weighted branches. Frame angled toward her vacant side; neck tensed and lowering just in time to see feminine cranium lean up with pitiful threads of strength keeping it so. Her lips were drawn back revealing a row of yellowish choppers.

“We need to get her up, some place where food is readily available. As long as she has something to digest, she’ll be able to keep her temperature. The question is…how to get her up?”

It was in that moment while looking at their ice sickle mare that an idea formed. Tilting head up he said, “Let me try something for her,” He might, and that was a big, ‘might,’ be able to raise her from the empty ground. This idea was yet untested, softly he added, “If this works, be ready to stabilize her balance.”

Inhaling a breath of bitter cold air until it filled his lungs to burst; Midas summoned the spindle threads of magic within himself. It took a moment; layers of permafrost hindered his tugging. Surely, and finally swiftly; granules of his talent sprouted from the ground in trickles, then streams until the shapeless glittering sand circled his forelocks and trailed up. Left forehoof rose slightly at a bent angle, he tapped the butt of it against the ground and pushed with mind’s eye for the sand to trail below. It moved like a flowing stream of gold, slithering and shifting under the mare’s body.

Some came from beneath the ground; others found their way under, one speck at a time. Brows furrowed in deep concentration as he focused every ounce of energy into building the amount of sand beneath her body. Higher and higher it rose, layering itself below; creating a warmer shield. If he could keep it up, soon—her abdomen would be pushed up, along with legs.