Drip. Drip. SLAM.
Once sweet, rhythmic and relaxing, the whole state of the thunderstorm had changed to violence: a prince charming made bad boy who wanted the wild side and did what it took to be there. Soon, she'd be drowning in water, having escaped the beach and her blessed safe place when the waves rose high and came in land. What was lost would take time to rebuild, something that made her stamp a hoof in annoyance, but could be taken care of in every bit of her free time that she'd been lacking as of recently. Going to the floating island and seeing the World's Edge had engulfed her, and with much more to fill it in, there was no time for doing what she wanted. Even the morning with Amara was more of work than seeing an old friend.
Moving along wet sand issued a challenge. It was unwilling to stay in the place, running away from the pressure slammed down when her strides tried gain ground, causing stumbles and even the occasional fall. She'd fallen once on it while nearing the outskirts of the oasis, wet, disgusting, orange sand glued and matted to the left side of her body. The rain wanted no part in assisting, but as limestone and grass replaced the sand, her pace was lazy, chest heaving forward with a head hung low. A limp tail held a depressing appearance when it fell between her legs, a matted lock draped midway up the right leg. A lone sigh announces her arrival, and the storm has it's fun at her to allow the lightning to scream a harsh bout of laughter across the landscape.
Voices ring out like whispers on the wind, not wanting to be heard, to be ignored by those that have become unlucky in having to hear them, but adds a tingle to the spinal column that makes one aware as of things you can't see. While refusing to let herself be viewed in such a disgusting state, the cold stabs of water knives make her pray for the dry spaces beneath the tangled arms of trees. Cautious though moving quickly with a slow stride, desperate but weak, depressing, an ugly sight to be seen. Hopefully, if she was to come to find any soul in her refuge, they wouldn't be judging.
Raindrops become small drips when the rain is blocked by the tree. She shakes, shivering because it's cold, even more harsh now that she's come to be soaking wet in a dry place. Stream rises up from her nostrils like smoke from volcanic vents. Only when she looks inward to the trunk does she notice her sister.
"Oh, Africa. It's good to see you." None of the words have meaning, merely something to say to a friend when she isn't in the state to be seen as a friend, yet alone her leader. The dappled mare never was a lead to her in her private eyes, knowing that deep down, the mare was still the same one she'd met in a younger day. "I guess the rain is what always brings us together, huh?" There is some sort of happiness in it, but it remains hidden, faint behind her current appearance that blocks all the joy of seeing a good friend.