He knows only walking: one foot forward and another and another. Shadows slip away and only the steady beat of wings leads them on through a hazy dusk, through hot winds streaming over dry earth. Asur's tongue lies thick in his mouth and the stallion forces down a painful swallow in between the labor of dragging breath. He is weak; he feels weakness seeping through his veins and struggles on despite the miles lost behind. Now is not the time for counting; halfway up a mountain only fools pause for the view and never make their goal. He shakes his head and the flash of pale limbs follows the flash of Smoke's small hooves. The stallion's head aches; his hooves drag heavy trails through the dust. Hot, breathes a sluggish voice in his mind. This is a dragon land, baking and inhospitable. This is a place beyond his might; it would crush him without care.

   Gradually the afternoon diminishes into true dusk, and their shadows slide lazily alongside the pair. He lifts his head to watch the sky turn orange, and more mountains rise ahead. Jagged peaks - he recalls the teeth of wolves. Some of the heat seeps from the air, and the fire in his coat dies down and simmers into something bearable. Asur breathes once more, like a beast awakening. Like a man dead on his feet recalled to life.

   The chieftess moves on his blind side, but Asur's head swings to offer the good eye sight. Shadows reaching from the mountains stretch out to embrace them now, and wrapped up in hospitable air, he feels a looming end. "This is your home." The strain of slope weighs on his limbs, but trees drape branches overhead and Asur's lungs fill with damp air, the promise of water. "It's beautiful," he observes, the gratitude heavy in his voice. He has too much to be grateful for tonight, and willingly or not finds himself allied with a stranger, but a good one. Hopefully. His keen eye moves about the place in earnest curiosity but always travels back to Smoke, awaiting her direction.

"You said you could help... this," Asur says at last, the most direct attention he has paid his wound since setting foot within Helovia. He gives a twist of his head to bare the wound again, half healed and caked with blood and grime. No embarrassment finds its way into his tone - just anger, and a good deal of staggering pain. He does not expect the mare to have forgotten; his statement is a plea, a last reminder. Begging anything is still strange on his tongue.