"NO!" The anguished cry of Argetlam rung out across the hills, to any of the Foothills that remained, and had not been so cruelly torn from the land of the sweet green grass and steady mountains by gray shadows. It was a physical blow that the dark gray sire saw- painful, heart-rending, and it tore him to pieces. His stomach twisted, his heart contracted furiously, and his vision seemed to blur as he heard the words of the black mare. Black in body and mind, Argetlam told himself bitterly, emerging from the loose, spread out forest that he had been wandering about. How? How could they tear the family of peace from its roots, cast it to the wind and let them fall apart? How can they invade a land with fragile foals- Nayati- and gentle healers? How could they attack the gentle families? Jackal had warned them, as had Aaron, and nevertheless his heart nearly burst, and his ever-gentle amber eyes were watering desperately. If horses could cry, the crafter would likely burst into tears there and then.

As it was, he could not, neither could he begin to return the grass settled in his stomach to the earth, even if he were to colick for his nerves. If only they had been warned earlier... if only they had gone to save Romani and Willow... if, if, if. Argetlam had had a relatively peaceful morning, rising extremely early, when the sky was only just turning gray, not yet the palette of pinks and colorful, vivid reds and oranges. Birds had not yet begun their sonnets and thrilling, sweet, little choruses and melodies; all was silent in this lovely land. Home. He had been wandering, looking for metal, when he had seen the first bodies flitting through the trees, to the border, vague and indistinct against the glowing sun.

Now, weak-kneed, he stood before them, eyes desperate and ears pinned to silver skull, metal still weaving and bending at his great hooves, totally at a loss. He longed for Nadira, and Aaron- Aaron, the comforting familiar friendship, and the sweet scent of earth they all carried. For Jackal, for Nayati, for Romani, for Willow. Anyone and everyone, he wanted to have by his side. Surely the Chief would be coming- but for now... all he felt was bitter sorrow and regret. To fight or not to fight? He had fought at the Moonlit Tides, but in vain. Again would he fail? No time for that. Buy time. He must get time for his family to arrive, to face the foes. Argetlam had not been eavesdropping, he had been aware. When one sees numbers entering their borders, or at the edge of it, even the least curious will be piqued, and come a little closer.

War. It was the thing he sought so desperately to stop, to eradicate, to erase from this world entirely. Ailith said it impossible. Argetlam could not deny it would be hard, but right now he was mostly fussing. Wouldn't this be a poor- no. This was his home, the sweet familiar smell of earth. The pounding of metal. Around him everything seemed to become sharper, brighter- the light was brighter, the birds were singing louder, there was the quiet stamp of restless feet, and his heart was about to fall out of his great gray chest it was beating so hard. This green grass and rocky soil was theirs, and nobody would tear it from them, no matter their numbers.

This was home, and he would not leave it.

"This is our home!" Argetlam cries out, and he prepares to march into battle for a forlorn second time in his life.