[open] where the skies end

[Warstorm]

Magic is ugly when it implodes. 

Like many places where enchantment reigns, her country had been timeless. No one knew exactly when it had come about, and no one could ever imagine that it would ever end. But the hunger for power is as insatiable as it is bottomless; enumerable battles between kings and queens, good and evil, light and dark roiled in the winds of the Country.

In the end evil, the darkness, whatever the old biddies wanted to call it, prevailed. The War was lost, and a dangerous black magic found itself in the grasp of those who had slain thousands to get it. 

Warstorm can still smell the smoke. Pink nostrils flare, then wrinkle at the foul living memory. Shaking her wild mane out of her face, the mare snorts and turns to smell a small bloom of summer flowers to rid herself of her own imagination. It's hot, and the sun's brightness makes Warstorm squint under its intensity. She smells other horses about, though doesn't see any in her immediate vicinity, which suits her just fine for now. Her father should be here soon ... wherever here is. 

WARSTORM

where the skies end