The magic flies from my body and drains my energy, but since this battle has hardly been a stress upon my own resilience, I am rather unaffected. I hover above the pandemonium below me, which begins to fold into a silence as the bodies that were the targets of my violent wind fall. One by one, the valiant ranks of the Foothills which met the invaders fall to their end, ceasing movement and drawing heavy breaths from their still bodies. I am out of their reach, but even had I been an available target to those last standing soldiers on the ground, they were already swarmed. Really, the power of my magic stealing their breath and silencing them was a favor. It saved them from the more painful and powerful blows, leading them into a dreamless sleep - a night black and rid of stars. When they awoke, they might find themselves in lack of a home, but not without a lack of heart.

As the gray draft falls to the floor, heavy in spirit and head, I let out my own sigh. There was no triumph in defeating an opponent that you had no difficultly battling. Truly, the few who rose against the Grey were worthy of praise, as I have mentioned before. However, there is no spirit that surmount those who fight with just as much heart but more strength. Had the Grey not been in need of a place to call home, these brave souls might have persevered. It was not so today.

I do not move from my position in the air, but instead look out across the field to see only two remaining figures that were not familiar to my eyes. One mare, who looked like a strong breeze might make her keel over (which I have to resist the urge to test my theory), and a stallion who looks worn but not hopeless. I feel that he has accepted defeat cleanly, but maybe I am wrong. My own heart feels heavy in my chest as I hold tight in the air. Surely, Ophelia had not needed my warriors to arise victorious here. If she had, we would not be so disparate in number. I look for her vision of white in the crowd bloodied and broken, seeing her own pristine coat smeared with crimson blood. Her eyes look heavy, her face drawn. Once more, the filly I knew in the Throat grew. Life has a way of beating you into maturity, whether or not you are willing to be sculpted.

I wait for her words, listening to them carefully. She offers the stallion, sole in his upright and fit position, a home within the land of the Foothills. I feel happy that she has extended this gesture to stay, not forcing those out of their homes. However, I grow weary. The battle is over, and my kin have served her purposes well. We have no need to remain here absent of healers, as Onni and Cirrus await us back in our crimson stained home in the desert. As she offers her dismissal, I nod quietly.

"Brethren of the Throat," I call out, looking for the three faces I had brought with me today. "We return to our home to remedy our wounds and see that our borders are still secure. We never know if that parasite has tried to ransack our home while we were away." And with that, I turn tail, heading back toward the south, waiting to hear the sound of wings whistling in the wind behind me, launching out a farewell without looking back, a soft breeze to cool the heads of the warriors still upon the ground. They would need calm minds to deal with the aftermath of a battle, even if they are victorious.
""

[ WC: 669 ]