Look down, the ground below is crumbling
Look up, the stars are all exploding
There was a flurry of air; whirling mist, and rapid movement,

Quite unexpectedly a fourth mare burst through the grove of old trees which had harboured the unsettled group through the chill of night. Africa’s heart lurched with surprise as the winged creature leapt towards her, an illusory blend of Cirrus’s young, worried expression and that of a horned predator pouncing, flashing through peeled open eyes. "Africa!" The mare’s voice flew ahead, scattered with confusion as it fell across startled, pricked ears. With barely a moment to blink, the light touch of rustling feathers had curved inflexibly over the dip of her mottled back; softly tender lips explored the dejected droop her nape, and still more delicately they brushed away the stream of warm tears which had saturated her drawn, lowered face.

Africa did not immediately recoil from the gentle touch perhaps dumbstruck and confused herself. Through the narrowed eye which Cirrus’s muzzle fussed beside, the broken mare struggled to piece together the buried, lost history and her identity amid it. There was a clash of sand-dust and wilderness strewn about her- Africa could only guess that they shared the desert, as home. Whether unintentional or marred with some form of guilt fuelled deliberation, her damaged mind could not climb through the flimsy amnesia which hovered as a thick, impenetrable fog therein. Pulling only blanks, Africa stepped to the side and out from beneath the caring clutch of the wing, a distorted sort of rue straining through her shy bewilderment. Only that night, far back during late Orangemoon glazed her memory; her journey into the lion’s den by the side of a white herd mate. The desert was where it had all started.

"What happened?" Cirrus demanded at once, and Africa was secretly glad that the spotlight above her had switched away, even if only for a moment while they summarized the situation. She mused bitterly and in silence, hoping the the mists lapping by her knees might grow hungry and swallow her away.

Smoke answered first as the dappled mare shrank discreetly, still further from the reach of the group. Silas watched her with a careful, unwavering eye, sensing within his own heart her discomfort as the crowd stewed in seriousness; mulling over what had been, obviously. The snowy unicorn’s smooth, tone followed appropriately, and fear of what condemnation would inevitably result from her arrival home, trembled through Africa’s hunkering frame.