He spoke and he expects to see the vast split in the world open up and begin draining terrible effects of sun. But still there is nothing. There is noting but the sound of dehydrated cicadas and the buzzing of hooves across crunchy grass. There is nothing to eat. There is not vegetation for miles as it looks, and he watches Mauja glance sideways at what might have once been a promising ground for food. There are trees up ahead, noticeable to the King's narration. He is thankful that the trees are the beginning of World's Edge. Daltoff nods as his eye slides across the tips of those hunter colored trees. They are close to black as a sultry grimace remains to the sun's appeal. Anything dark is rare. Anything cool and dark and wet would be greatly appreciated. But the large stallion shakes his head as those heavenly trees are still so far away; in the meantime, the sun can blur them with its heat.

He wonders what sorts of Unicorns live up in those woods. He undecidedly thinks first of an empire, the clinks of war material, reckless children dancing under eager feet. Eager feet that would die to pierce another type of flesh. He thinks of mothers holding their children close to the tit whispering softly that they shouldn't feel so wound up. But then the vision ends all to fast as his mind begins to think of a less than perfect realm. There are only a few soldiers rummaging across the borders with sides that aren't maimed, no children grace the heat ridden world, and Mauja is the only male who agrees in purity. Again, his head shakes, and he loathes the bubbling brain cells that created such a distasteful vision.

"Home."

It's a mere sigh as the gallant trees envelop the following bay hide. Shade washes over the sweat creating pours, and it looks as if steam is rolling from their shoulders, but it is not. The sea promises a cool bath by misting the wide trunks. Daltoff nods and grunts shortly as the wandering eye traces the outlines of trees hidden in the foggy distance. And soon, as the hooves graze more pine needles, the great Mauja stops and his spotted skin meets the cool bark of an ancient friend. Daltoff peruses by resting his flank, marked almost as an ocellus against a friendly tree. He smiles coolly as the call erupts from the FrostHeart's chest.