In the days since Raksha's abrupt arrival into the world, Nyimara found that she was forced to take things slow. Every hair on her body ached even in the days that passed, but it was not enough to stop her. She was queen of the ridge now. She would not let herself be seen as weak.

And so with her small red filly at her side Nyimara once more began to retrace the trails that had long been absent beneath her hooves, stretching muscles tense from lack of use. The journey is a slow one, each step gingerly placed and met often with a brief rest. Dark eyes blink slowly as she gazes over the familiar landscape, a sense of peace sinking into her heart. She was home.

The sounds of chatter along the shore catches her ears. Gently she reaches her small muzzle down to stop the bouncing filly and guide her from the dense jungle trail down towards the beach. Where not long ago she would have found herself leaping with prancing steps down the rocky pathway, now Nyimara took them with painful slowness, glaring affectionately at Raksha as she bound forward on wobbling legs. Even in the small foal's inexperience, Nyimara can see the surefootedness of her sire and brother a trait clearly passed along to his foals.

Death.

Though it is still relatively new, the lingering scent of decay brings a renewed sense of urgency to her steps as the silver haired queen breaks free of the dense green brush and lets her keen eyes scan the scene before her. A single dial flickers at the familiar sight of Siobhan in the company of an unfamiliar stallion of pale gold and a foal. Suspicion colors her steps as despite the pain that flares with each move, the chocolate colored mare picks up her pace to an uneven jarring trot.

Teeth clench behind her cheeks as the dark mare halts near the familiar spotted mare. "Siobhan..." she breathes, dipping her head slightly towards the mare before turning her gaze now to the fallen mare and damp foal. Raksha draws to a timid halt at her mother's flank, blinking silently up at the strange horses gathered around. Despite herself the small filly shivers, leaning against the warmth of Nyimara's flank for comfort and reassurance.

Nyimara tilts an ear towards her daughter but does not dare to pull her emotionless gaze from the stallion. Slowly she lowers her head to sniff the fallen mare, snorting at the sour stench of infection that clung to the dull dark skin. She had grown far to familiar with death in the past few months. The omen was not reassuring. "I do not believe we have met. I am Nyimara, queen of the Ridge. Who are you?" she asks her voice taunt. Pain glazes her dark eyes as she glances down at the filly. Raksha takes a timid step forward, her small nostrils flaring as she wuffs a warmth breath at the newborn's pale coat. "Too much death around ones so young... too much." she adds tilting her head towards the incline from which she had come. "The foals should not remember this."