So far, first impressions of those who live in the desert are as dry as the desert itself. Mazarine hopes she doesn't come to regret her decision to follow Cain here. One-by-one, each horse takes their leave, until only one is left. Mazarine and this other pony couldn't be more different. One blooms gold and white, like buttercups and white violets sprawling over a springtime meadow. Her demeanor seems almost as soft. The other is the color of fire, with a hot tongue to match. Mazarine wonders if she and Zubeia could ever truly be friends or if their differences might collide.

There is only one way to find out.

Mazarine takes a moment to step out of the water, and flicks the wetness from her tail, but she doesn't leave. She turns to face Zuebeia by the water's edge, willing to continue their conversation. Let it lead them where it will.

"I'm sorry for what happened to you." Mazarine begins. She tilts her head, small ears pricked curiously forward. So meek and unassuming, this other mare doesn't carry herself like much of a princess. She talks of past tragedy with a calmness that is almost disturbing. "Will you go back someday? Don't you worry about your parents?" Mazarine was certainly no princess, though her parents might have spoiled her enough for her to think she was at several points throughout her childhood. And it wasn't any war that took her from her parents, but instead, a strong desire to find her own way in the world. Even though there was no threat of danger when she left, Mazarine still thinks of her parents often, and hopes they're doing well.