Though perhaps not the best scenario for her friends, the long journey home from Thistle Meadow had given Africa the quality rest, the deepest sleep, needed to restore her strength. When she had first been given Earth’s magic to mend with, the Gallant had given stern warning that it would sap her of energy. Already that consequence had become a rather regular occurrence, and though undoubtedly it worried the folks that were witness, the one-winged mare was well familiar with all it entailed. However, it was not all bad; trailing the down-time was a wonderful feeling of euphoria, wildly refreshing.

The sound of voices resonating off stone lured her to wake, and pale golden eyes danced across the dark walls surrounding; cautiously pupils pinned as they explored. Silas? her mind whispered, and the zephyr hopped across curled talons through the wilting greenery to nestle by her side. Home... he told her tenderly, preening feather’s along her thick grey cloak that had been moved from place over the course of the journey. She sighed heavily, and though a smile brightened her mind, it was interrupted from her expression by the cold, hard shell of beak forming her mouth.

Quietly she glanced by the two mares; bodies that seemed to the small bird upon the ground, vast and overwhelming. It seemed there would be space enough for her to join them in true form, and where she was nestled by the rear wall of the cell (the other, beside her nest by the stream, she narrowed her thoughts to summon the magic from within which would fuel her transformation. Silas at once opened his wingspan to slow the time around his beloved – to the chatting pair, the change should appear instantly, with no audibly grinding bones or hideous swelling). Without so much as a gasp to fill deprived (much larger) lungs, she was curled against her wing with them as a mare, and a thoughtful smile graced her lips.

They had been talking about a kidnapping, Sohalia had been taken it seemed, and concern quickly dimmed the lightness of her mood. A tender bump was offered towards the white dove by her velvet soft nose, and she hummed as though in effort to comfort the painful memory. Perhaps Rasta’s news – not that dissimilar to the Trascended – would be be worth more than Africa’s own. The dappled mare srugged awkwardly her shoulders above tucked knees and replied, “I haven’t really any news.”