Had Nymeria been born a desert horse, she might have known that smashing the cactus apart with her hooves would afford her all the fresh water and sweet, tender grass flesh she could want. As it was, all she could do was stand in the huge plant's skinny shadow and resist the urge to lean against it, lest she stab herself with its many teeth. Still, even in her exhausted state, she began to wonder... Why would a plant need a coat of needles? The answer came at once, and seemed almost too obvious. To protect something. Something valuable. And what could a plant possibly need to protect, in a dead place like this? What was its most valuable resource?

The dappled mare shook her dark forelock from her eyes and began to closely inspect the smooth green skin of the plant. Her grey nostrils flared to take in its scent: it smelled fresh and sharp, alive. And it smelled of... of...

Horse?

She whipped her head around and came face-to-face with a stallion, just as his throat rumbled in a strange, ominous, almost wolfish sound. Saliva dripped from his lips as if he were ill. Nymeria recoiled in alarm, ears pinned against her crest, only to feel the stabbing of a hundred spines on her rump. Squealing, she twisted away from the cactus and out into the sunlight a few feet away. There, with feathered legs stiff and head high, she planted herself and regarded the male suspiciously. He too was tense, but he had made no move to attack her: not yet. His voice was sudden and grating, like hooves on slate: she had almost forgotten what it was like to hear another speak.

The word 'pack' was unfamiliar to her: was it some strange regional term? Dark eyes wide, and lathered, filthy sides heaving with quick breaths, the mare lifted and held one foreleg in the air for a few moments - pawing, then stomping hard - in a manner the stallion would hopefully understand as a warning. Her ashy tail she flicked back and forth, anxiously, against her muscled rump. Should she attack, or flee? Or something else altogether?

Nymeria considered her position. The male was a little smaller than her, but she was exhausted and he was also, possibly, insane. Who knew what he was capable of? And if she ran, where would she go? She would likely spend the last of her energy and die before she could find food or water. If she fought, on the other hand... She did not want to think about that. So instead, she spoke, her voice low and rough: but not before measuring her words carefully.

"You have water here?" It was less a question and more of a statement: obviously he had water somewhere. Horses could not live without it. "Show me."