She does not care for their politics, only for her Willow.

Yes, her Willow, she thinks fondly, fiercely, with a greater emphasis than most of the ideas that manage to last within her fuzzy skull. She clings to he creature with her body and mind, a small grey shadow perfectly content to follow her new idol, her beautiful goddess, her perfect blend of everything good. She smiles like a loon in love, and the flowers on her back bloom and bloom. She wonders if perhaps she can someday become like Willow - if she is like Willow, if this is why she has the vines and always has? She wonders if perhaps this is her family, if she has finally found one who would treat her as so many dams treat their foals, if she will be loved by the tree and if she will be able to stay with her and if they will be a happy family now.

She is oblivious to the meaning of this gathering. The passing of power means nothing to this girl in grey, the rise and fall of leadership a passing shroud over the gaze of her world. She cares about the kind words of Gossamer and how pretty she is; she cares about the one with the dragon named Zaffre and the spotty colt and the sky-filly. And Willow, her Willow. She watches the giant mare with crimson-tinged eyes and she smiles in content, and she feels safe, even as the crowds grow bigger. She recognizes so few, fuzzy images of half-forgotten greetings and scents obscured by the crumpled fabric of her mind; she sees one who is black and has a gold dragon that she remembers sort of as being very big, and one who is also black except white too but now she has a cat on her shoulders and she does not know why because she has not seen a cat wi- no she has! Excitement wells within her as she realizes that the winged-cat is the second of its kind that she has found, although she thinks it is a little different, but maybe it is exactly the same? She bounces eagerly from beside Willow, looking up to show the great beauty her excitement, but Willow is busy making words at the injured horn-face. She feels sad, and jealous; her vines droop.

She does not understand why everyone is yelling, and why they were angry, but she thinks it has happened very sudden. One moment everyone was talking, and she was happy, because this was her family and it was all around her and she felt safe, and the next the stripe mare she met was yelling and the injured unicorn was yelling and then the sandy stallion was yelling and maybe not yelling for real but they were angry, and the plants could feel it, and they quivered beneath the dripping spill of blood, and it scared her. Around her, the ground grew dead, a protective surge of strength pulling into her hooves. Confidence, sudden, great for such a tiny creature; she wants to stop all the hurt, to impress Willow, to save her family.

She wonders where Gossamer is.

It is a tiny creature that steps up before the dark stallion, the new leader, but tiny creatures have great voices. She raises her head, she ignores them all and she address them all; she yells: "No more hurt!" Anger, she is angry, and viscous thorns now, suddenly, adorn her sides. Around her hooves the earth churns, plants growing and rooting and dying with uncomfortable rapidity, great black thorns snarling out of the ground and reaching for those nearby before falling into crumpled ash. She glares through crimson eyes, at all of them and none of them. She wants them to stop.

"We is family! Not fight -fix things!"