Not once did her own crippling injuries ever glance through her mind. Africa was focused intently on the fallen mare, her sister, and the cruel affliction she had suffered. Rasta, above anyone else she knew, did not deserve the labyrinth of wounds dealt to her, the withholding of nourishment, of water - the one-winged mare sighed in utter disbelief, and shook literally the budding resentment from her gentle mind. Of course the pearly-eyed mare wore valiantly her troubles like they were barely ripple in the ocean of war and hatred. It was awful, that she wished not to be fussed over and the Earth Medic would heed no such direction. One final scan revealed no trace of the grim wounds which had been (no doubt scarring would glaze over time where the flesh had torn deepest), and she felt content enough move forward.

As Rasta too moved on, answering in turn the mention of the Wildfire, their eyes nearly locked and it was enough to provoke a memory to life before her eyes – bright and real, and the Starry-Eyed could not help but be swallowed.

She found herself gazing across a body of horses. It was a meeting, in a time long ago... Midas stood at their head, a younger version she thought and knew well the troubles soon to weary his soul, and his still energetic tone spread out like a warm blanket across them all. There was much to be covered that day – Kri the Resolutes’s leave was acknowledged and her successor, the Gallant, made formal. She was ignited by the Sun himself, gifted both the tasks of spiritual leader and messenger; a privilege which now she regretted for many reasons. So too was Gaucho installed beside Midas, and alone, the bold voice of Rasta rang out.

Her words in the present echoed the warning given in that meeting, though none really heeded it then, and she imagined the same would hold true today.

She found herself lost for words as she drifted back to reality, saddened by the prospect of war and ruin, but alas, she no longer had the strength or courage to stand among the fierce Dragon herd. Quiet thought of Sohalia the Transcended crossed her mind and her expression stiffened beneath a grimace – how could a dove so delicate, ever stand against such potency. It has already changed... she sighed inaudibly... Cera had not the same warmth that she recalled from his youth – when Midas had slept beside him. Africa felt he had become a cynical soul, though fiercer still through his faith in the Sun. "Yes," she hummed tentatively, "Cera is well."

Rasta suggested water in regard to the Starry-Eyed’s offer, and pastel-yellow eyes turned to the zephyr circling above. Any berries you can find, grains or grass... and the bird wheeled out of her view. She wasn’t sure just how she might retrieve a drink – there was no Sohalia to craft crystal cups, and she wasn’t sure if the Falls had any similar plants to the Throat’s Aquis Pipe. Another sigh and she glanced back to the pale palomino. "It will be a fine thing if you can walk, Rasta. I offered you water, but goodness only knows how I might bring it here..." Throwing her forelegs out ahead, Africa heaved upwards (and away) from her friend and once standing she turned again to nuzzle her fondly – only then did she realise her own weariness, the strength gone from her body. Midas had warned her that summoning the Earth to mend would sap energy.

Africa