I will run the streets and hostile lands, I will touch the rain with all I have
I will breathe the air, to scream it loud. My feet will never touch the ground.

She goes looking for them again. Her heart shudders at the thought that they might not have made it. The ground could have split beneath their hooves and eaten them whole. Her grandchildren might not have been able to escape the trees caving into themselves and the mountains falling from the sky. Camelia prays (on what, she isn’t sure – once it used to be the Mother Tree and the spirit of the Gates, but both are gone now) that her family is unhurt. She whispers encouraging words to herself, humming songs to drive the darkness of depression away from her sunny soul.

Although many of them ended up atop the Mountain (with thin air and crowded space and gravity pulling at their weak bodies), Camelia knows the majority of the chaos migrated to the Meadow. And so she starts there, grateful for the clearing’s familiarity. Her eyes glance toward the tree she found Mast under and her heart twists painfully. Camelia limps slowly toward higher ground, intent on spotting any of her family. The fall while she ran from impeding destruction brought a fierce gash to her right shoulder and a deep pain into her bone. Since then, she’s acquired a bit of a limp to hide from the ache and burning it brought.

The aging mare glances around patiently, hoping to spot any of her beloved family.