Contrary to her previous feelings of bitterness and resentment, the color-bearing bird limps among the trees with a far more positive air about her. The long turquoise stalks at her wither bounce with each step that she takes, causing the latticework of shallow cuts upon her back to itch from their touch. She had been a fool to set out on her travels after sparring with the stallion. A sensible warrior would have turned to a healer to see their wounds attended to -- why couldn't she just do the same?

The answer is actually quite simple; the restless bird is unaccustomed to the bustle of herd life, and she is not yet ready to act as a lowly citizen under the guidance of her superiors. In truth the maiden is used to issuing the orders, not following them. The blood of the last great Chieftain resides in her veins, and she is finding it much to suppress her desire to rule. If anything, her "obligation" to succumb to the will of others has only stirred the coals of her ambition. Her heart now burns like an unyielding flame, and there is only one way to quell the fire: promotion.

The prospect of rising in rank is somewhat foreign to the warrior, for she had been born to the Oracle and Chief of the Cualneci-Oquichtin tribe. Her power had been bestowed in her since birth, regardless of the fact that she was the youngest heir. But this is not to say that the Aztec did not deserve her favourable position. She earned the admiration of her people through her words; fought savagely to bestow fear in the hearts of her enemies; trained hard to master the art of contacting the spirit world. All of these accomplishments -- and the days and nights that led up to them -- are what have made the stately maiden into what she is today. Every moment since her birth has defined her life in some way or another.

But especially the moment that she lost everything.

Now she is nothing to the eyes of those around her. Not a single being on the planet can recall the time when the grieving peahen had slain a camp full of men, or hunted down a man for countless days only because he had been there on that fateful day. There is no one to remember the agony that their sacrifice had put her through, or for how many days she fled from her own land, or how hopelessly and painfully alone she felt when she realized that they were all dead. All of the children that she had grown up with, the warriors that she had fought alongside, and the elders that she had listened to and revered for their vast amounts of knowledge. No one is left to remember all that. No one, except for her. And that is why she has chosen to abandon her Legatus and the careening Gull. She must restore the memory of her old family by maintaining life in her new one.

The weight of this task is not as heavy as it once was, and the hybrid finds that the agony that comes with the memories of her tribe has dulled. Perhaps it is because she has finally found a new place to devote herself to, or maybe it is due to the battle that she has just witnessed. War has always served as a fine distraction for the tribal maiden, and it doesn't surprise her that even observing a fight can make her lust to participate in it. Even as she limps towards the small group of equines, the warrior finds that she does not regret the lifestyle that she has chosen. It is in her blood, just as the spirit of a Chieftess is.

She reaches the spot where the roan lays and casts her orange gaze at those gathered around him. Her lips almost form a sneer at the sight of the horned girl, but she snorts instead to hide it. Her own hide is remarkably bright, but that is not why the volatile woman chooses to play nice. She has use for the girl, and offending the pink-faced doe will not provide for easy exploitation.

"If you are a healer, I have a wound that needs seeing to." With a hiss of pain, the beauty curves her barrel so that the gash is exposed to the healer. Particles of sand still stick to the blood-soaked fur surrounding it, and the warrior wouldn't be surprised if it was also inside the flesh. The afflicted area doesn't feel any hotter than the rest of her body, but it is remarkably hot during the day. "Might be infected," she grunts, assuming that if the girl is speaking the truth about her position, she already knows what to do. Bellona certainly doesn't.

Her thoughts turn away from the healer and back to the brute on the ground. "What are you doing there? Are you tired too?" The usual snap in her tone has returned, and her ears flicker in annoyance at the state of the blue stallion. Does everyone come to this place exhausted?

"Where are you from, boy?" These words are softer, for she is in a tender mood today. After seeing the determination in the last wounded bird she encountered, she expects to see an adequate recovery from this brute.

A fiery gaze looks over the painted lady present, and this time the malicious bird allows a look of contempt to come over her face. Does the paint not feel beautiful against the cheery hide of her purple friend? She has to draw shapes on her, too?

"Cheveyo. Welcome to Helovia," she mocks. "I am Bellona, of the Hidden Falls. You know Dragomir, then, I presume?" Disinterest replaces the snide mask on her face, and she immediately interjects with, "Well, now that we three ladies have met, who is this poor boy, then? Are you all right down there?"


"Sed interdum rutrum urna, sed pellentesque sapien tempor in." Quisque iaculis dapibus fermentum.

{Sorry to make this so crowded! I found a blue roan, and I just couldn't resist. DX I'm also so sorry this got so long! It just kind of took off! I promise my next posts won't be so big. @[Harley] @[Alija] @[Cheveyo]

cualneci-oquichtin -- "beautiful warriors"; Tribe of Beautiful Warriors.}