So many feet never bode well, Lothíriel thinks, wandering along bamboo-lined paths, a train of little blooms sprouting in her wake. She cannot see who they belong to, but she feels the vibrations, the rumble, the cacophony of their voices. Who they are is unclear, for she cannot see anything beyond the damned greenery, but she chooses to follow them anyway, biting back uneasiness in favor of adventure's promise. Lush grass parts beneath her split hooves as she moves through the maze—first at a brisk walk, then a trot, then a rolling canter, her black ears pricked and eyes bright. After quite a while of navigating through the bamboo, the voices grow increasingly louder, and their general tone is enraged. She cannot distinguish their words, but once she sees the angry body, the roan girl understands. For the first time, she witnesses one of Helovia's gods, an elegant dark woman with ghostly pale eyes. She pauses at the group's fringe, recognizing the forms and colors of certain individuals. However, she forgets about them when a deathly cold whisper thrums in the very core of her being. Lilac eyes widen; her heart-rate quickens in her chest. The goddess shouts, but Lothíriel cannot understand who she addresses. Her questions are answered however, when a great wolf seemingly springs from a shadow before the goddess, spittle flinging from his snarling lips. When the slaver lands, it promptly kills a flower.

Lothíriel gasps.

He must be felled. 

After a moment of contemplation, the slender girl launches herself into the throng. Muscles ripple beneath her sterling hide, and her moonspun mane thrums against her neck to the rhythm of her determined strides. She runs in the direction of the goddess and the wolf, carefully avoiding gnashing teeth and stray magic. So many bodies crowd around the pair already, and Lothíriel attempts to dodge them nimbly, ears clinging to her poll as she points her horn towards the wolf. The ground begins to tremble beneath her hooves, and she struggles to continue her trajectory, muscles straining against what is surely magic.

Once she finds an opening, Lothíriel lunges at the wolf, forelegs tucked neatly against her chest. She aims her horn at the hip closest to her. ""