Quietly, the Shaman stands in the back of the crowd, looking out at her mother with a worried expression as she stands impatiently, as if the words would spill out of her mouth before the herd had fully gathered. Her body is far from relaxed, finding tension in her legs and no ease of her neck, one ear cocked back uncertainly. Her wings are folded calmly at her sides, but Lyhty twiddles her mane ceaselessly, trying to quell the horrible feeling of dread that is growing in the belly of the tobiano mare as she tries to catch the gaze of her mother. The dark blue eyes avoid her face, almost cunningly so, and before Kri has even spoken one word about their topic, Onni already knows what to expect.

The only reason Kri would have to avoid her gaze. The only reason she would look so excited yet upset at the same time. The only thing that boiled her blood to this temperature. War.

When she speaks, Onni lets out a heavy sigh. Her eyes fall to the crimson floor at her feet and she does not rise them, looking rather forlorn in the middle of the desert wave. Slowly, sky blue eyes turn the color of tears, dewy and wet, the feeling of her heart being torn sideways. How was Onni to react to this? She had decided that war was not her calling, and that she would turn from violence and shake her past from her mind. War was ugly, brutal, and ultimately, hopeless for all. Even the victors would suffer losses. However, the beloved home where she had laid her heart into would not be so easily torn from under her. She could feel the very feeling radiating from her mother, that they should not succumb to this. A single tear slips from the eye of the healer before she lifts her head up, a strong stance of a warrior instead.

The gentle mare takes heavy steps closer to her mother, hearing the promotions distantly, seeing the gifts bestowed upon the mantles of others with sightless eyes. She stops beside her mother, stretches out her mouth to her chocolate ear, a whisper snaking out into the air for the leader's ears. "If you have brought this plague upon our home with your unbidden mouth, I will never forgive you," the Shaman's light, airy voice is hard and cold, mirroring that of her mother's for one terrifying moment. Her words are spoken quietly, but firmly, head held high with pride as the tobiano walks by the group at the front, toward the edge of the great desert wave, and slowly her figure dissipates as the wind swallows her whole, carrying her heavy heart far away from the Throat, out to seek the comfort of the kind Sun.

[ ooc: her words are whispered, but those standing next to Kri might be able to hear them. ]