Though the colt appears composed, even content on the outside, beneath the surface his thoughts follow a similar (if darker) pattern to Dia's. Conquistador's recovery from the upheaval of the storm may seem remarkable, but in truth the yearling has grown accustomed to devastating changes in his life. He has learned to take nothing for granted, to expect that things will not be the same as they are tomorrow. To regard his existence and relationships here as the sand that shifts beneath his hooves - unstable, and unlikely to survive should the tides of change reach for him again.

And the beach has changed, shaped into something different - recognizable, but different - by the storm. Driftwood lay scattered where the waves had left them, like bones stripped clean and discarded by scavengers. Shellfish and sea stars, stranded beyond the tides' reach, are snatched up into the hungry beaks of gulls that circle endlessly overhead or jostle one another while searching amongst the piles of seaweed. The cacophony of their cries is deafening, especially when Dia playfully chases the nearest of them into the sky. Conquistador backs into the jungle's shelter, peering out uncertainly at the palomino mare's invitation.

"They're so loud," he says in his own soft voice that is barely audible over the scoldings of the gulls that circle over their heads. And then, watching one venture down from the sky again, "I guess it could be fun, but...are you sure it doesn't hurt them?" The sound that Debonaire had made before he had fallen would haunt Conquistador until his final breath - he doesn't want to be a part of anything like that.