It was with a sinking heart that the dwarven steed followed behind his herdmates, leaving the lands that he had taken to love and called his home in the last six months. He felt every bit as beaten and defeated as he looked on the outside, mismatched eyes bound to the ground before him so that no one may see the tear threatening to tumble down his cheek. His tiny body felt like one big sore, every step that he took was a matter of convincing himself to keep going. On the rump he had been seared by the dragonfire, his shoulder had a bleeding scrape but felt even worse on the inside, and his head was throbbing fiercely. Yet he forced himself to continue, blending in with the sorry flock that had once been the supreme rulers of the Edge. Aurelius had never been much of a fighter, mostly due to his lack of physical grandeur; his wits were sharper than his hooves.

But now was a different reality, he had been harmed but had caused suffering for the enemy forces as well; he had broken their bones without scruple, reduced to a machine that frantically attempted to defend what he held dear. In the midst of all the misery and the sorrow he felt for the battle lost, he had won a personal victory as well. He doubted anyone would have counted on him to do much good in a war, but he had proven to them yet again that lack of height did not make him less of a stallion. Seeing the pain in the faces around him was far worse than any pain he felt in himself, but there was only so much he could do to soothe. Time would be the best medication for what they had endured, and eventually they would regain their strength – might be they could even take back their home, eventually.

The frost of the Steppe tore at his lungs, turning his breath to mist in the early morning air. Condensation formed small crystals of ice in the hairs on his muzzle, frost falling softly and soothing the burnt on his back. He halted and watched the bickering ensue, but took no part of it himself. His gaze wandered between the creatures that had been his family, and he knew that he wouldn’t cease to think of them that way just because they were not tied together by a common home. Mismatched eyes fell upon the white frame of Mauja, the dethroned king who would remain his liege no matter that he had lost his title. A couple of mares there he had only met once or twice, but Kou was there with her newborn daughter. The small steed furrowed his brow; this cold would be no problem for the likes of himself and a couple of the others, but there were individuals here much more vulnerable to the raging winter storms. Children as well as grow-up of more delicate descent; and while he was aware of Mauja’s fondness for the snow, he ought to think first about his family.

He nodded respectfully to Descaro and Ulrik, walking up to stand next to Lena silently. She had been hurt as well, he saw, and a sad smile was offered to the femme as little comfort. He touched her affectionately as he had of habit, careful not to cause her any further pain, his warm breath upon her skin as he caressed her softly with his maw. His own despair, he saw reflected within hers, and it made everything even more real. This was the harsh truth; he was homeless yet again. But this time, he had a family to lean on.