Thirst burned in her throat as she pushed her way through the vegetation. The green of the foliage was faded and had a dusty loot about it from a summer of too much sun and not enough rain. Every strand of grass felt brittle beneath her feet, the soil hard and unyielding. It was hard on her legs, but sore tendons and aching bones was the last thing on her mind right now.

Finally breaking free from the clinging hands of shrubs and low-growing trees Erthë stepped out into the Grove with a sigh of relief, her gaze drawn as though by a magnet to the glittering waters of the pond. Or rather, she knew it ought to glitter, should lap soothingly against a green shore where grasses grew tall and lush. But she saw nothing, not a thing. Oh, the water was there, she could smell it - a sweet, exhilarating note upon the air that whispered promises of relief - but Erthë had to walk all the way up to the brink before she could see the surface of it, and what she saw made her heart sink.

Drought. She remembered her mother talking about it during their long, aimless wanderings across the arid landscape in the south. If she closed her eyes she could still hear the mares laughter on the wind as Erthë had struggled with the concept of not finding water to drink, of going thirsty for days on end. Wasn't there water everywhere in Helovia? Was the north not full of snow and ice that could quench her thirst, even when there were no rivers or lakes to be found? But if things continued like they had this summer, they really would experience drought eventually. This hotspell had already lowered the levels in the Thistle River and reduced this large shaded pool into a grassy mud-riddled puddle. What would they do if no rain came in Orangemoon, if Frostfall brought cold, crisp air and no snow that could melt in spring?

Nothing good, that's what. The Throat would be the first to dry out, and when the hardy dragons of the south began to look for greener pastures, who would be able to stand in their way?

Frowning in disgust at the muddy banks Erthë gingerly slipped and slid down towards the waters edge, holding her tail high above the muck so she wouldn't drag the pale silk through the muck unnecessarily. That her slender legs were stained up to the knees couldn't be helped; she had to drink, even though the water was thick and lukewarm, even though it tasted heavily of earth and plants and unmentionable filth.

When she'd had her fill, the young mare lingered on the edge of the pond, staring dejectedly at the shadowy figures of fish that swam to and fro beneath the murky surface. The day was nearly over but the heat showed no signs of relenting, not a cloud could be seen in a sky that stretched endlessly from horizon to horizon, pale as molten lead.

The season felt endless, she felt listless. At what point had she grown so accustomed to sweating that she no longer cared?

Oh, what she wouldn't do for a drop of rain.