She was blinded by her own sense of indigence, utter, unravelling grief - emotion that she was never particularly adept at concealing. The torture of all that she had witnessed in the days gone by without him plagued her good sense, and nullified the foreboding dread rising from the depths of her rattling conscious. Crimson rage had ignited through her piercing, accusatory gaze, but she had not at all the strength left to wield it. Sloping grey shoulders slumped beneath the weight of her ultimate despair, and her starving lungs gasped silently between each aching sob.

The villainous, dark Reaper arrived to shoulder his seemingly pensive follower - but Africa cared little for the silent, presence he offered the growing gathering. He was frightening, terrible - yes - but in a lifetime long left behind. On this occasion, as she stood broken yet again by the blood of his brood, he was more just an irritation, that itch upon her withers; a cocky blow-fly which with even the swiftest tail-strike, could not be shaken.

She spared him not even a moment’s interest…

The Legatus of the land just fallen arrived, and the moments to follow were more surreal than than anything else. To her, it felt like a transaction were being made - perhaps he was numb, burying the grief as though it might bring upon him some kind of shame. Like they had face left to save. Africa glanced by him with hollow, incredulous eyes. Where was the anger? Surely there was adrenaline enough left to fuel any kind of outrage. But the fragments of a life born from a past deeply scarred began to settle through her mind - she began to see her own hatred, the racism that tarnished her own thoughts. It was too late though, their example had done nothing but serve to fuel her dislike; they were callous, conniving and cruel creatures. They were wickedness personified, gloriously arrogant and ready to squash any belief inferior to their own - there was just no hope for the lesser fractions of this world. Midas had seen it also, defied it, but the bold mind was no competition against the potent charms of the bully.

The smiling assassins of the north…

Essetia was speaking, though her hoarse voice could barely penetrate the chaos ringing through her mind. Pale, blood-shot eyes swing around softening only as the grief of the clever, once Sleuth became apparent. Africa was not alone in her mourning. The bay mare pressed closely her nose into the stiff sinew of the medic’s dappled neck and when she pulled away, a single feather slipped towards the ground. Rapidly she reached to catch it, dry lips snatching the quill in a soft, trembling embrace - the other turned then and left without even a backwards glance; without even a chance to hear the quiet, tortured, “…thank you.” Again her eyes began to swell painfully with tears, but there was yet another distraction, another beaten warrior pausing witness the scene. Elsa did not linger long, instead fleeing through the sunlight; fleeing the ruins of the home and family so dear to their hearts.

The release of a fathomless, shuddering sigh fluttered the broken mare’s nostrils as she turned back to the bronze-marked Unicorn - his penetrating stare was upon her, and she shifted with a start, unsettled by the unexpected softness of the accompanying voice. It was rich, exotic and Africa’s long ears betrayed by surprise as they flicked forward from the bed of flaming hair. She had no need for the cold, crafted contraption - except, unfortunately, to bear the body of her mate to his grave. Bitterly she watched his receding form before it vanished altogether. ’What world have we brought a child into…’ she thought gravely, sinking into the cold, rigid corpse of the Gallant to sob. The unleashed torrent of emotion was furious, desperate, and for the moment she forgot altogether that Rostislav was still there.

When finally she did turn, her eyes melted across his twice horned face. “Please,”” she whispered, drawn and breaking, “Will you bring him to my cave?” Africa couldn’t bear to think of the inevitable events to follow - sealing the nest he had crafted, revealing the death of her father to Zahra - and with her wing still swinging horrendously, barrel bleeding and gored, the Starry-Eyed turned weakly to follow the widest, smoothest trail she could find, slowly, towards her den in the southern stretch of the Falls.