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The weight of stormy grey building across the horizon to the north brought both a strange, forlorn heaviness to her young, ambitious heart; and one of sparkling excitement. Of course rain was not an unfamiliar tone upon the dry, desolate desert landscape. The monsoonal season had passed through each year, filling the Throat itself so that banks were breached and the central lower parts of the territory inundated entirely. All the while the lush, emerald foliage whose roots sang out for the wet spell seemed to shimmy their leaves, dust washed away, and native creatures braved the wild downpours to dance and cleanse their weary skin. Birdsong, regardless of the overwhelmingly sticky humidity, and flooding which was as inevitable as the darkness of night and brightness of day, was most welcome; and even celebrated by any sharing the sandy dunes or calling the oasis home.

This time though, she had not the company of Midas to ride out the wet, and watch the flurries of water channel towards the lake- the ocean.

It was yet to rain, but the pressure was building through the atmosphere and Africa’s skin danced and flinched wickedly as streams of hot sweat meandered down her swaying, walking body; working together to form minute, crooked waterfalls whenever their traction fell away. She was wandering towards the border, forcing her lazy weight against the lash of the thick, warm wind as it spilt relentlessly in from the mainland beyond the thrash of new sea. She could not sit idle like once she might have during spring, an unmoving harbour for flies and gnats wishing for themself an easy feast of blood and sweat. The dappled creature felt now the different pull of responsibility; of commitment, and restlessness because not yet had their fine deity’s desire been met. The herd was small still, and quite humble compared to the roaring army and hum of activity that once formed its core. She knew the foundations had been laid though, and that greatness could not be achieved so easily.

It had not been passed down so freely to she and Ampere like it had Midas, and then Gaucho as well. This time, they would need to pour all of their energy, heart and determination into forging a new name for Dragon’s Throat. It would be a masterpiece built from crumbled ruins.

Silas cawed fiercely from the air not far ahead of her ambling path.

Soft-yellow, narrowing eyes chewed through the horrible glare to where his looming black shadow had paused to flutter in place. There was another horse there, she realised quickly, and without the shy innocence that might once have held her back, Africa pushed forward with a little more conviction to meet them. Already they had passed beyond the tattered remains of wall marking the narrow strip of bridge binding them to the rest of Helovia- but she was not so fast to condemn, especially during these truly early days. It was a fine thing apparently, because the lithe amber mare (caught perhaps still between the ungainliness of childhood and the glory of physical maturity), was more than familiar. "Sikeax!" She called, new cheer filling a soft, tender voice that had been strained through recent days by the burden set about her puddly-grey shoulders; upon her brow, fashioned in gold and a constant reminder that she had massive obligation to nurture.

They had spent a night together some time ago before Helovia’s Darkest Hour, beneath a rouge tree’s generous arm span for shelter from a bleak storm of sorts. The conditions had been frightful, but less so for the friendliness of this girl and her lovely attitude. Africa certainly held no qualms closing the gap between now, and went so far as to welcome her desert sister home with fluttering nostrils gesturing forward in friendly greeting. The despondent nature of Sikeax’s young stride did not pass the enlightened mare’s thoughts either, and concern fractured her expression; where the simple delight of their reuniting lit up the pale white mask of her face. "Come to me, what burden’s you so?" Africa’s heart leapt into the base of her throat, throbbing pitifully for one soul who had seemed so far beyond the pits of such despair. Times had been touch though, and many had been wounded by the sickness; the darkness. "You’re home now, you are safe." Dry lips were sent to fondle affectionately the feathers twirling violently in the breeze above the weight of her limp forelock- the gold among them, of course, drawing her appeal.