It had been a week or so since Andromeda first returned with a heavy heart, weighed down by the knowledge Kri could not be found anywhere. If only she had been more careful; if only she had kept a better eye out. She put the blame upon herself, even though her leader was more than capable and strong as dark diamond. It was not her fault, precisely, Kri had been stolen. But she flew nearly nonstop above the desert, always watching, always wary, of the force that took her leader coming back for more.

At first, time passed peacefully in the welcoming velvet of the star-strewn sky.

She was flying when she saw them, the many members of the Aurora Basin swarming like oh-so-many ants over her beloved home embraced in the welcoming presence of night. It broke her heart, and steeled her mind. For a long time Andromeda had believed their enemy was great in strength; but she had not thought they would be so audacious as to roam down from their winter halls to the hot palaces of the Throat. For a moment, the graceful woman continued her flying, her ills eased by the familiarity of this sky, the rustle of her wings beating against the wind. But even as she flew, her gut wrenched and twisted. No, she could not let them down, her dearest family and the mighty Kri. Andromeda is not a coward who flees at the sign of battle, the Sergeant tells herself. Courage is doing the terrifying acts, no matter how afraid you might be, no matter how your heart flutters like a startled bird and your mind cannot quite collect its fragmented thoughts.

The stars gleam and glisten, on her ebony coat and dark velvet wings, and in the sky. How the mare wishes the Sun God was here, strong of heart, to be able to steel her faith. But what if... what if he has truly abandoned them? Does she go to fight for a land without its patron? Where is Kri, the mighty and strong? It is she who would rally them, sing her battle cry. But the Resolute is gone. Where is Midas and Hector? They are needed here... to rally the troops when Kri is missing. But in the writhing mass of dark bodies, she does not know if they are there.

Andromeda pulls in her wings, and tips forward into a swift dive, even as the cold clouds cover the wisp of a moon at its highest point. The wind roars in her ears, and she is fearful that the darkness is an ill omen as she prepares for battle. But even with her mind nervous and on edge, she realizes that her obsidian coat will blend in quite well with the darkness. How lucky she is to have camouflage! The element of surprise is on her side today. As she plunges downwards, her eyes pluck out a shape amidst the many, one unadorned by a defender. Even as she falls, two hundred feet, a hundred feet, she takes in his details swiftly. He is a unicorn; she will have to be careful about the sword on his head. Of course they are all unicorns. She is a pegasus, winged and one of the sky, light and agile. The gray, the Reaper, though she knows his legend not, is smaller than her tall, graceful and muscled build. It is this staunch build that forewarns her he is a formidable opponent; it is his darkness, the hardness in his empty eyes.

Falling, falling, falling.

Closer, closer, closer.

Her wings snap open, the pressure on them enormous as she extends them to full length, the wind shrieking about the edges of her sleek feathers. Bracing her legs, she hopes to land on his very back, with her head gripping his horn and hooves snapping on delicate spine. She would rather take him out in one blow than have to go through the fight, so she may be able to help the others of her herd not faring as well.

If he moves- which the Sergeant prays he will not- her legs might crumple beneath her on the sand at the border of the Throat. At least the sand will cushion her maybe-fall.

Get out, invader, Andromeda thinks; this is our home, and you will not steal it without fight; for the Dragon Throat will fight to the last bloody breath before relenting hold to your damned Northern hooves.

They cannot win.
They WILL NOT win.

What anger burns in her heart, a hunger to hurt him. Andromeda is not vicious and cruel, wild and wicked; but something she does not know has scalded her heart, urging her forwards, demanding her to battle to her last breath for the sake of her sweet family, even as the Edge of the World fought their own war. If only Midas had not sent aid... but, he did what was right at the time. It is not his fault the Throat was not being invaded- invaded!- at the time.

Her hooves rake down his right shoulder and barrel, emitting a snarl of pleasure from her. It surprises her, the rage in her voice, and she wonders apprehensively if always she had this raw brutality inside her, so unlike her quiet self. She loves it, rejoices as her hooves scrape on hard muscle and the salt on her lips as she draws blood from his thin-furred cheek.

Then in a flurry of wings she is stumbling most ungracefully into a clumsy landing, balanced too heavily on her right side, left wing closing to her flank awkwardly to avoid the stallion, while her right gives one last miserable beat to try to keep her balance. Twisting ungainly, her head reeling from the hardness of the sand on her hooves, the strain on her slim legs, as she tries to keep Deimos in sight. Where has he gone?! The sergeant cannot see the Basiner's silver form against the black night. Then he hits her, ramming into her side so hard she's sent airborne, falling with an audible thump onto her right side. Luckily, this toppling of Andromeda is what lets the horn jab miss entirely. Yet something she learned as a child, just a hatchling learning to fly, returns to her. Roll, and you will not be badly hurt- bruises instead of broken bones. Roll she does, away from him, in a tangle of long legs and huge wings, sand in her mouth and gritty on her skin, every muscle moaning in protest. One roll she does, then two, and then she gets to her hooves, dust pouring off her flanks like water. No time to shake, get rid of the sand in her ears and eyes and wings; she bugles her battle cry, a clarion declarance that she will not give way.

The breath is short in her lungs, and she aches with a ferocity she has never had. When she fell, the wind was knocked out of her, leaving her weak about the knees. Still, she summons her strength, for what else can she do but fight, as is her duty to the herd?

Around her, war wages. Blood paints the Throat red, red, red. Their screams ring out over the battlefield, gristly wails and moans, cries for help, help that is not coming to the Throat. Are they losing right now? The smack of meat on meat is not familiar sound, not this many. This is no skirmish. This is war. Will any survive the sudden onslaught? When will the carrion crows descend? Already the black scavengers begin to gather on loud wings, settling on trees and watching the savagery and brutality, the monstrous nature of the Basiners and the desperation and righteous anger of those defending.

What if she dies, leaving her people?

She drops her head, ears pinned tightly to skull, and barges forward, wings clamped tightly to her sides. Every muscle screams a protest; a protest she ignores. The dust is thick, making it more difficult to see, yet she hopes she runs head-on to him, to ram his right shoulder (her left) with her right wing, which could throw a good buffet when needed. As she lopes forward, she would reach to bite his spine, in the center of his back, and attempt a smack at him with her long tail to his head, to discourage him from biting her haunches.

For a moment she is swept back to fighting Murdock. Where are the mercenaries of the Foothills? Would they come if aid was sent to them? She remembers their dance.

Then she's back, with blood burning a permanent smell in her nostrils, fear and rage with it. Both the scent and terror sickens her. There's a presence around this stallion, a shadow that obliterates all else.

But she will not let being afraid stop her. Especially not of this stone stallion the same size as her, whose only advantage in breed difference is the sharp needle on his face.

Family. It was, technically, a unit bonded together through blood; but friendships could be forged stronger than what blood might dictate. This is what she was fighting for- for the Throat, their sweet home. How many have already been lost to the Basiners' spears thrusting forth at the citizens of the dragon's maw? Where were the mothers, and the children? Oh gods, was that their screams? Was that bellow Midas? Was that shriek from Gaucho's mouth? Her heart was pounding too loud, too frantic in her chest. War was no pretty place. Still, she strove onwards. She could not give in, not as long as she was still standing.

However, she may not be standing for much longer.

There is courage in her heart, but she's afraid, especially of this stallion. You are not a coward. You are not a coward. Andromeda was not. Stand fast. The roan's wing buffets his hip and the smallest of smiles curl her lips. She's glad, glad for the small victory, and hopes that a stronger blow will land upon the stygian, one that can put him out of here for good. With determination burning in her heart, a hope lighting her from inside that she might be able to land another on the Reaper, her teeth snag on his right hind leg. Salt stings her lips and tongue, a sour tang about as sweet as drinking ocean water. For once, Andromeda does not mind. It is like drinking wine (though she knows not what wine is)- she could get drunk off delivering blows, off fighting someone away from her beloved herd. She knows not if her tail stings his eyes (though she hopes it does) due to the lack of nerve endings in her hair.

It is then Deimos' horn pierces her haunch, plucking a few primaries as his horn catches her deep and hard.

Andromeda cries out in pain, wings unfurling from her flanks in hope to take to the skies and return to the earth to battle him after a moment of recovery in the familiar stars. There is no such luck for the bird today; death sings it's sweet song, thrumming through her veins and whispering in her ears. Her hooves lift off the earth, her wings flaring, trying vainly to catch the wind. Today she will not fly. There is panic, and she thinks she might die. She feels as vulnerable as a leaf in the autumn wind, as if her very soul might be swept away at any moment, taken to some other hall than where she lived. How sick she feels. How everything is draining, the world is going black, spotty around the edges. The sergeat's eyelids flutter, her wings thrashing once more.

How hard she strives to stay awake! No! She can't fail. She just can't. This is her herd. She can't go so easy into the night. But the stars are so quiet.

Then she falls from the sky, a fall from high enough to break several bones, and hits the earth, wings crumpled, eyes closed, and breathing shallow. One of her wings is caught askew beneath her, the fragile bones crushed and broken. Perhaps it was the overexertion that had her respond so strongly to his magic. Maybe it was the touch of his horn in her haunches. Or mayhaps it was simply because Deimos was kissed by Death and Satan and sent back to earth, the devil wrapped in black robes and a long horn, with empty eyes and a hard heart.

The little bird is silent and still as the war wages on.