Her hooves created thunder as she galloped across the world. Cloven hooves scattered turf, and her white mane rippled behind her like banner, but it did not represent surrender. A thin layer of sweat foamed against her hide. Ki'irha, the starlit girl, painted blue, with galaxies pressed into her curves. Her horn threatened to tear open the fabric of the sky as she tossed her head wildly, as if she wanted to open the void and spill all of heaven's stars upon the world. She was wild and free and hunting. Ki'irha the warrior, Ki'irha the once-general, Ki'irha who hails from the Aurora Basin.

There was so much more she didn't know. She didn't know how she had earned such an esteemed title, that she had been fearsome and brazen and strong, spilling blood of her own, as well as both her comrades and her enemies. She had been trained by her father to fight, to kill, to maim, but her edges had been softened and refined by a doting mother who licked her wounds and knew she was capable of so much more. But none of these things she remembered.

Nor did she remember the warmth and keen sting of of love. She didn't remember craving the love of another, how she was never able to finish the delicate dance of emotions she experienced with the painted stallion who she came to know as more than the Clovenheart. But more important than that, she did not remember her dance with the Nightwind. She did not remember meeting another of her kind, pieced together with moonlight and stars, beneath a perfect midnight sky, as time flew by upon the Frostbreath Steppe. She did not remember their holy union, even if it only lasted for the night. And she did not remember her children. Her beautiful twins, starborn and perfect. She had never been able to experience the honor of knowing her children were the descendents of a Goddess. She did not remember leaving then under the watchful eye of her herdmates one fateful afternoon when she had slipped from the mountain pass to go on routine patrol. She did not remember nuzzling them, placing kisses near their budding horns, ruffling their soft manes, and passing a tongue over downy feathers that always seemed to stick in different directions. She did not remember her promise that she would be back soon.

None of these things weighed heavy upon her, because she did not know. There would be time for guilt later, should her memories return, but now she just stalked the land like a hungry wildcat, searching for answers to fill the deep gaps that she knew were there.

The Thistle Meadow was wide and long, so when she finally came upon a place where the landscape was broken by trees, it came as a relief. She slowed her pace to a trot finally, her nostrils flaring, her breaths coming in sharp gasps. As she came to the border where one land met another she stopped. There was something off about this area. Though autumn had already stolen many of the leaves off of the trees and had trampled the lush green grasses of Tallsun beneath its heels, this place simply seemed dead. She dropped her head, gazing into the decaying wetland with steely eyes, deciding if a place like this could even provide answers. She had learned to watch her path wearily, and the crack in her horn was worn with regret and as a reminder for what happened when she proceeded without caution.

So instead, she waited.