Cera
_{I'm an angel with a shotgun, fighting till the war's won, and I don't care if heaven won't take me back}

She needles and pulls with words she cannot fathom rolling her mouth. He comes because he is called, because he is obedient and ever-watchful. A guardian of the sands that has never left and will never leave even as the winds change the dunes into a land unrecognizable. Even as the earth cripples and drifts away, he will remain here. And so he comes when she calls, this mare with no real power who summons a herd devastated by loss. He comes and he hears her blasphemy and her assumptions, hears Ampere's croaking voice and sees the remnants of a battle he doesn't have to ask after - he knows she would have done to Megaera what she had done to him, all those seasons ago when he had been naught but a machine. Dead to the world around him. And their voices rise just as they did when Sikeax had called her meeting, and Cera feels the tremble of flames in the coals of his heart where passion might once have resided. Now it is simply ash and iron, and his eyes do not wander to Sohalia when she speaks. He has yet to see a healer - because they don't rightly have one - and though he can see murkily through his right eye, his face and body are still stained with dried black blood that he wears with neither pride nor shame. It is simply a fact that is.

There is no real reason for him to speak, except his soul commands it of him. He shudders like a machine jerking to life, jaw working and tongue unfurling to rumble his words among these women who either do not know him or despise him. 

"We must achieve balance with our leaders. Where Sikeax falters, so the other must excel if we are to interact with the whole of Helovia on behalf of our herd. If Tae speaks true, then you do not exemplify a dedicated warrior to parallel Sikeax's healing past. If you are so worried about the defense of our borders, then show us Nephele. Don't simply sit back on your haunches and complain about the state of things without working to fix it." The strength of his voice surprises him, but the Prince does not show it. How he has any spirit left for this drama is beyond him. He is exhausted by these petty squabbles, by the cotton stuffed willfully in the ears of his herdmates, those who will not hear his cries for peace and negotiations. The Diviner he used to be, the peace keeper, cringes to see how their herd shuffles through these displays of idiocy time and time again. A cycle they never seem to fully break. 

"Sohalia was a diplomat, Ampere was a warrior, both were Sultanas and had different vices and virtues. The consideration of the position cannot be one ruled by favoritism or emotion, nor greed on your own part Nephele. If you have no proof to show us that you can be a good Sultana, then don't even bother trying to fight your case." And with a lash of his tail, frustrated by all of this happening in the first place, Cera fell temporarily silent. Gathering his words until frustration shoved them from his mouth like fire.

"Do you all forget the leaders before Gaucho? Is his reign as far as your shallow eyes can see? What about the might of Kri, of my father Midas, of the founding ruler Ra? We are not weak simply because Gaucho is gone and we cannot hope to replace him. But Gaucho was not the same leader as Kri, or Midas, or Leander, or Africa now was he? Are we going to live beneath his shadow forever, or are we going to cast his memory in iron and build a new foundation on top of it?" The words boomed out from his voice with a frenzy, hating that they could not see beyond the scope of Gaucho's wide shoulders to the ones who had lifted the Wildfire up before. The ones who had been Gaucho's mentors and leaders. The Throat did not begin and end with the Wildfire, even if Cera's heart felt like it did most nights.