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.