She follows Giant, silent as raindrops on glass. Ashes swirl in the air; black motes on a world of grey. Too familiar, the rainchild thinks sadly, blue eyes downcast. Destruction is inevitable, my sweetling, and there is no righteous thing you can do to stop its course. This had been a great forest once, she can smell the sweet scent of incinerated pine needles, so familiar, another ache; but she would be brave, at least for now, ignoring the sting of half-healed scabs along her hide, rippling like a low tide. But there are shades of cyan and cerulean in the distance, sparkling and glorious below the slowly setting sun.

Giant's sadness is almost palpable in the air, she can almost taste it. From one ruined home to another, she thinks cynically, eyeing the dips in the volatile ash the stallion's hooves made, causing flakes of jet to flurry aimlessly behind him, like dirty specks of snow. There is another mare with them, a pretty blood bay with a twisted black horn. She had seemed so happy on their trek from dark forest, but it had drained out of her when they reached the charred remains of home. Huyana cannot help but feel the sorrow as well, sad eyes gazing at Lena, the very color of the distant ocean which loomed in the distance, an old friend. They continue on, and black legs are only further darkened by the char, cloven hooves digging into the odd dry footing, like some strange version of sand. Soot clings to the pale slate of her fur like lost children depraved of mother.

Far away, the mare can see the sickly green heads of pine trees, peaking above the desolate charcoal like sullen beacons of whatever life there is left in them. At least there is the sea, and it is there her heart lies, within those tumultuous depths, kissed by curious fish and tumbling through fronds of algae, never lost, although never quite found. This is a temperate sea, with a coniferous forest, so unlike the warm tropical beaches which had been populated by palm trees, her home for far too many years. Bitterness rises in her throat like brine in the mouth of a drowned man, her past home had been scorched as well, beaten beyond recognition by those white half-gods, demons with tongues of silver and arms of steel which beckoned you to come close, only to trap you, holding your throat until your lips become blue and your eyes glaze over. She is glad they are long dead.

A shudder passes through her sterling body, swarthy limbs mechanical in precision as they follow the other two. Vast ocean expands before them and Giant turns back, kind mismatched eyes finding the eyes of his wards, gentle brown and melancholy blue, mahogany bay and ashen peppered roan. Rainchild manages a faint smile in return, a tremulous thing, too doleful to be true.

She has not told them her name.