So this is a disaster.

It's not a good idea. You feel that in your bones, in the depth of your soul, in the knot that clenches at your stomach- this is not a good idea. But you know better than to argue with Isopia, to try and talk her down from her crusade. Maybe it's because you trust her judgment, maybe because you were raised by a woman hell-bent on adhering to her own moral code, regardless the repercussions- whatever the reason, you take this new turn in stride with quiet resignation, opting to follow and support your friend rather than attempt to talk her down.

The Edge is eerie in the early morning light, its weird glass barrier almost-hidden and menacing. You shiver against the cold, the physical and emotional discomfort, as Isopia leaves to summon her opponent, a great brute of a stallion you're sure you've seen here or there. He emerges from a milling group of also vaguely-recognizable-but-mostly-unfamiliar horses, a champion to the challenge for a bag - one stupid bag - surrounded by a swell of support. Your ears pin back as you watch him approach, anger blaring through your skin - not for him, but for them, the so-called family of the Falls that has neglected to come support their queen. The Elephant arises from a wall of upturned faces, and what does Isopia have? You, a small lonely figure on the side of the battlefield, a shifting shadow in the mist. No medics, no soldiers, not even Cowboy, the idiot who didn't have the balls to retrieve his own property- and, sure, you don't really think Iso's doing the right thing, but you know why. Even if she wasn't your friend, she would be your Czarina.

This shit would not be tolerated in the Throat.

At first you keep your distance from the rest of the throng, those familiar-unfamiliars, but slowly you begin to drift close, curiosity and a desire to think about anything other than the dragon and elephant at war before you driving you toward the figures. Even before the battle is concluded they're starting to drift away, and you frown at this, watching and trying to figure out why.

You pause before you really enter the gathering, your sunbeam eyes casting furtive glances toward the Edge(ers? -lings? -ingtons? You don't know). At the center of the group are two painted mares and a white filly; you strive to hear what they, and the others, are saying, but their voices are quiet and muted by mist. You want to say something, to justify Isopia to them, or at the very least mitigate the damage done by this fight. Your lips quiver, try to form words, and fail. What can you say? You are the enemy, cheering for the opposite side.

But there's one thing you know, one thing you want them to know, even though you're not sure who to tell it to- so you tell it to yourself, to nobody, to the Gods who listen and judge, your bright voice heavy (but still loud) beneath the weight of the ongoing fight:

"She's doing what she thinks is right. What else was she supposed to do? If we don't stand by our morals, what are we?"