The skies begin to clear.

A nose, wet and sore, probes the clean post-storm air like an animal coming out of its den after a long winter of hibernating. He lets the humid air course through his nasal passages, feels it swell his lungs and course through his blood, as if he died beneath the black clouds and was reborn beneath this sky of pristine blue. Goliath has run away from David, the dun notes with a sardonic twist of lips; the shire seemed so confident in his abilities, but a little lick of dragon fire felled him easily enough. Twice the king of thieves, he muses, sighing sharply as he limps sorely on his near knee. Victory comes with a price, and without a healer, the dun may be as lame as a kitten for some time.
Dei is curled up tightly on the flat of his back, snoring softly and dreaming of giant black shades with flames swallowing them whole. The dragon had been so, so tired after their skirmish, drained by the wretched red mutt's nefarious magic. As their bond had returned shortly after the brief, rainy battle, Jackal had questioned the dragon about his momentary confusion, but the bronze dozed off in defiance of the inquiry, leaving his bonded mildly irritated and thoroughly worried. Lowering the fine russet head, he grazes peacefully beneath a clear spring sky, the forage cool and wet on his tongue. A bird sings merrily in the distance, drawn from its nest by spring and the promise of a beautiful day. It is fresh, as if the storm swept away all the violence and darkness from the Foothills, leaving only sun and birdsong and a victorious dusty son reaping his vibrant emerald feast.

The herd must know sooner of later of the Dauntless' defeat, and with weary eyes of silver, he reluctantly raises his head, a soft breeze caressing his sides like hands of a gentle lover. Vaguely, he wonders what the Able will think of his brother's usurping, although dismisses the worry with a lazy flick of a rolling auburn tail. With a fitful gait, the King of Thieves begins to limp toward the apex of the hill he had been grazing below, a menagerie of greedy insects in his thrall. Dei yawns extensively as he is roused from his slumber, stretching his impressive wingspan. Light filters through the delicate membrane of his magnificent wings, reflecting it off the dun's hide in brilliant bronze and gold.
When they reach the summit, Jackal pauses, gaze sweeping over the handsome domain - his home. His heart threatens to skip a beat as his eyes trace the mesmerizing curvaceous sweep of distant snowcapped purple mountains which cradles a winding creek, fed by icy mountain water. A smile tugs at the edge of his lips, drawing his face into a proud grin. "Foothills!", he calls, his gentle tenor cry tumbling through the valley below him like vigorous spring breezes. There is an edge to that voice, however, hardened by tragedy and battle. The youth seems old beyond his years, white scars tracing his smooth rosy hide like the etchings of fate on stone. An ear, torn and shredded by some spectre's teeth, tilts backward, and he awaits the Foothill's residents to crawl from their dens as if born from the earth herself.