January 1-8, 1 A.D

Rise of a Girfahl monarchy

The sun rises on the eastern mountains. The rise of the sun marks the beginning of the mating rituals for the Girfahl whose hormones are starting to activate. The adults, meanwhile, start hunting for fish and in addition, they start teaching their children how to fish.

Soon, the sun starts appearing in the western forests. Apart from the above, the farmers are leaving to take care of their plants. The hunters are also looking for prey and the gatherers are looking for fruits to which they can feed the sons who have survived the egg slaughtering. In the towns where governments have developed, those in the top of said governments start reuniting.

In the south, things are very different. The many rulers of the land know little about the concept of diplomacy, save for the concept of conquest, and often try to conquer eachother to see who will succeed Erraj and who will finally rule over the primordial lake. The typical cycle of a nation is that a ruler finally manages to conquer a large amount of land, after he dies; the councils reunite and try to elect a successor. However, due to the little amount of infrastructure, often local rulers end up using their own interpretation of the winners and try to hold as much land as they can get. This would be the same to the other powerful candidates and the land would end up divided between two rulers at the best. However, they all claim to be the legitimate successor of the legendary Erraj and this gives them a perfect excuse to slaughter eachother.

In one of these petty kingdoms, though, one ruler by the name of Ipakdre Yvdenaknden has came up with a revolutionary idea to protect his lands of Varisvaara from these wars that end up devastating his ever-weakening realm. He wants to declare a monarchy and turn his son into the successor to all the lands. However, he knows that he will have to face a large opposition for this. After all, the gods say that war is a sacred element in every man’s life and that one will only satisfy them with spilling blood in the name of them. In addition, it will hard to break the old elective nature from the rulers of settlements.

He is sending messengers to communicate this decision to the governors to the rulers of any form of settlement. These messengers will say that the king has made his son the one and only heir. They shall inform everyone by 15 days.

Siseridon, Opal Coast

“Lo Blea Kynigitos. Lord of the Green Hills. Master of the clouds. Thunder in the sky. The parter of the sea, and Despot of the Eastern shore.” the stallion rambled, giving a dry tasteless eulogy. His eyes gazed off distantly as he stood turned from the sea to the small funerary crowd as they stood on the beach. He stood like a statue, his wings pressed firmly to the side of his steel-blue body as untamed light-gray mane danced in his face. He was old, and his eyes half-glazed from cataracts. No doubt unable to read, his eulogy was no doubt committed to memory.

“Patriarch of House Kynigitos and Despot Appoint of Serene Siseridon we commit your mortal coils to Psymagdon for the glory of his skies, and the most serene of flights. Lay your death is renewed energy in the after. And we pray upon your spirit to bequeath upon the next generations your wisdom.”

Even if the poor stallion could see beyond his knotted and gnarled muzzle the funeral would hardly be an impressive. Siseridon, hardly one of the most impressive of the Silver Coast republics wasn't anything to commit even one of its richest Despots a full funeral. Then again, he had hardly been a popular stallion. Those who turned now were those who already say on the Senklitous of Siseridon; only twenty Patricians in all.

His funeral, whose only lavishness was the pearly white sands of the beach and the rich green of swaying palm ferns behind them. The sea was awash in deep blues against a sky of cotton. Deep rumbles of thunder could be heard, and there was deep anxiety to finish the ceremony, and an impatience to make the next step further.

The body of the Despot himself was hidden away in a boat of simple manufacture. It was even more of a sign of his ineptitude. The greed and lust of his soul had spent what he had saved within the week. It had been in the end that it had been found he had stolen much of the city's coffers to buy Satyr wenches to entertain him in his last miserable days, coughing onto the floor of his palace his lungs.

And of the many to see from the Despot's chamber was Iliousis Hymaria. Trusted by the fool Despot has his Viserios, his adviser, he was the witness to every exchange he had made. But it wasn't until he had began to devour the coffers that he became his rival. Blea could have ended him there when he protested. But what had transpired between him and his satyr whores most of had inebriated him into forgetting.

Iliousis. Standing a hand over his contemporaries he was a powerful young stallion. His father had passed when he was just a colt and he had inherited the status of Patrician at a young age. It was a blessing as it was a curse. On the Senklitous it was becoming apparent he would outlive many and he was already a shrewd youth. But a Patrician of his age only suggested weakness in the family. A curse by the Gods to many. In the background they talked about him being the last Patrician of his family, with only mares without a name left to back him.

His silken gold man hung behind him, tied in a long ponytail from his head. A light coat shrouded his pale blue hide in black. Hanging over his wings as he watched with bitter disinterest as the prolonged eulogy dragged. He was growing slowly bored. Golden eyes shrank behind a drooping lid.

But, they said death is a moment of reflection. Of life.

On reporting to the Senklitous of Blea's corruption they had become angry. His hedonism was known, but it was not known it would step over its limits so far. On that afternoon they had demanded abdication from the Despot. But one of his agents must have heard, and before the vote for his removal be made he had dismissed the council. Ordering them cast from the chambers. He knew that without ceremony he could retain his seat. And he continued to deny them for some time.

But as he drank himself through his last days, crying for one last surge or energy to avoid his coming demise the Patriarchs had reassembled. If without ceremony. The Senklitous has their birds, as the Despot has theirs. And the bloodied throws that racked his body became more dramatic it was known he would not live to see beyond a week. The depot grew more bed ridden, more infirm as the the Senklitous withdrew to their estates. Plotting under lamplight. Electing by the fire.

And so despite his dying family arose Iliousis Hymaria. From Patrician to Despot in waiting. All that needed to be done for his glory was the end to the ceremony. The illusion of his election happening this moment.

“We commit thee your body to the sea, gateway to Psymagdon, to achieve eternal salvation in his clear waters, and clear skies.”

The old stallion ceased his eulogy, and lazily the two guards near the Despot's funerary board placed their hooves on the dark wood. With a hearty push the boat groaned along the coarse sand, commiting itself into the waves with a splash. Beat by the waves it lingered for a time. The guards pushing it out further into the contemptuous waves. The gathering watched as they flew above the lapping waves. Pushing it out until it could find a current and be carried off. Ridding itself and the body from their Republic. It took time, and by the time the guards rose into the sky to return they were already dim spots on a graying sky.

The stallion priest who had delivered his eulogy did not make any pretended efforts to consolation the meager body present on the beach. It was clear that many were embarrassed and done enough with Blea that they'd rather turn and forget. Slowly Iliousis turned his back on the sea, walking up the beach with the few mourners.

“Where do you think his body will end up?” someone said from behind, cold and distant. The coarse thunderous tone brought Iliousis to stop, turning to the speaker. Alongside him walking a tired old Patrician.

“What do you mean?” Iliousis asked. The patrician was Keimonas Imisios. His green coat was graying, flaked with tufts of gray fur. His wings tattered and tired. His head reclined to bow forever on his long boney neck.

“He would not be the first coffin I have seen floated off.” the tired old buck smiled weakly, “Sometimes if you fly up and down the coast a few days or a week after you'll find them again. There's no committing them to a heavenly kingdom. We just push breeds like us off and forget they ever existed.”

“I see...” Iliousis mumbled uncomfortably, turning up the bank to follow the group as a straggler.

“If you're to be Despot, I imagine you will be dealing with plenty more bodies, my lord.” Keimonas continued as he followed suit, “And perhaps you might fly down the coast someday and find my own coffin, caught in some weeds or broken against the rocks near the Satyr Coast.”

“It'll be unfortunate if I do.” the Doge to be laughed, “What would you have me do then with your body, if I should find it?”

“Well, I do not expect much thought to be given of my corpse, as I now do give so little of others'. I could be washed far south to the Kingdom of Aeschion, and what bit of me has not been pecked clean by the birds will be burned in an effigy of those accursed Satyr's disdain for us.” he growled, “And the waves are picking up, I feel a northern wind. If our brothers pushed him far enough out I might make a bet our disdainful Blea will be on the shores of King Amegnos by the storm's passing his shores.”

Keimonas looked out down the shore, where along a distant outcrop sat several distance figures. Hunched over themselves much unlike the equine form of the Pegasi. “We could have committed his body to the Satyrs as glue for them.” he nodded in contempt, “Like so many slaves and prisoners. It would have brought the last inevitable chapter of his story quicker.”

“What about the offense from his family?” Iliouses pointed. The soft brush of palm leaf brushed his side as they trotted up the hill and to the dirty beaten hoof path to the city, “I would have challenged anyone directly at alongside my father's body if he was committed to the lowest funeral.”

“You are young, so I no doubt you would!” Keimonas laughed, “And I am old. I probably will not see the end of next winter. If I will be killed now for suggesting we burned and crushed his remains, then do it now. Bring the inevitable to me sooner so I will no longer wait.

“I already can not fly, and my hooves are worn and sore. Simply standing on the beach I was sure I would loose these too. Then you would have to beat in my head on the spot. But that wouldn't be hard, I don't doubt it's as soft as a gourd.” even as morbid as it was, Keimonas held a cheery demeanor. He was happy, if dark.

“What happens is our life, Iliouses.” he said, “Not our death. What we do carries for generations. Not how we die. We like what we do. Not how we go.”

Kudulmi Mountain, of the north-western arctic peaks

There is a fable in the oral folk lore of the northern cultures, one that had been passed down thousands of years. It was a simple, short fable with a direct moral message to it, and is known as "The Greedy Goat". It goes something like this;

There was a pack of goats walking through the mountain passage. They lived in perfect harmony to each other and shared their moss with no worry. But a young male of their tribe, greedier than most, not content with just the one mate it had, looked to a second female mate. Quick he found that second mate, naturally promiscuous goats may be. But as all the goats paired up, there came a goat without a mate. That goat, without love, would ram the greedy goat off the cliff. But the balance still came unstable, as now here was less males than females. And two of those females would never pair up again. And so a particularly unlucky male was killed, but the killing was in vain as the unlucky goat had a mate. That goat’s mate took vengeance on the killers, causing another goat to lose their bonded mate.

But one day, after each goat killed the other to try to restore the balance,there would be no goats of their tribe left.

While it is true, that a goat is not a Dubeeki, and that a goat thinks different of the world than a Dubeeki does, the fable resonated in the mind of the members of the cave dwelling Kudullu tribe- of which was particularly rigid about their bonded pairing and ensuring the balance of the two genders. The dual chief of their tribe, Kudummi and Sudunnu were particularly brutal about maintaining their balance of the spirit. And one of the families just gave birth to a baby Dubeeki. The chiefs, hearing of the news called in a counting session to make sure their baby fit into the rigid balance of the tribe.

The hundred or so Dubeeki of their tribe all came to the central circle of their cave, guided by the tiny bioluminescent worms that cover the caves and their sense of smell, with the family that recent gave with with their tiny 2’ in size baby in hand. The couple had to put their spawn in the center of the circle, where one member of the tribe checked the counting wall, with multiple circles and lines colored deep blue segregated into two groups painted onto the stony surface. The count came clear fast. There was 49 male, 50 female.

And the baby turned out to be female.

And so, despite initial protest the pair had to personally kill their baby before it would disrupt the balance by throwing it off a cliff.

But in throwing their baby off the cliff, they assumed their baby dead. But instead, there was another tribe, in the act of migrating south to the rumored Ice Kingdoms, who passed nearby that witnessed the baby being tossed off a nearby cliff that wasn't really that high in its height. Not as rigid in their adherence to the balance, they were appalled and a few of their members quickly rushed to the site of the baby landing. And they found that Dubeeki resistance was a thing that stood strong even from birth and the baby suffered little injury. Perhaps it was the landing in snow as opposed to a rocky out cropping, but what mattered to the Vinnobi tribe was that the baby still was alive. While multiple members of their tribe protested- not wanting to disrupt their own internal balance, the majority of the Vinnobi tribe ruled to keep the baby as a bartering good; for another tribe may have a shortage of females in their balance, or perhaps even the ice kingdoms of the south have a shortage themselves.

And so they named the baby Kiyunu, and while they could not accept her as one of their own, they would treat Kiyunu as they would any member of the tribe from a humane standpoint to keep Kiyunu's value high for a healthy baby is preferable to a sick one.

Mud blood

Hidden away a place unknown, too dark to see; A faint noise echoes throughout the cavern… the sound of screeches, hisses and taunts. A lone Slik retreats further into the cavern away from the chaos, clutching her spawn against her rough chest, she sways a bit, dizzy from the loss of blood. She dives under, submerging herself in the water, the cool touch of the water relaxes her briefly. The slik female not wanting to linger, kicks into motion and with a swoosh of her tail gently glides through the water with ease and proceeds to gain speed, faster and faster until she gained enough momentum and lunges out of the water, her limbs ache on the rock when she lands, shock horror stung her as she witnesses her doom inevitable. Faced with a cruel fate upon looking at a dead end, she loses hope and accepts her fate; she gets on her knees and waits…
A minute has passed or an hour, time is meaningless anymore all she knows is her time is up. A single sound continues to echo again, and again however the chaos and battle has long been over, this sound is a sad noise, the sound of tear hitting the hard cold floor of the cavern.

Sleek figurers silently and eerily emerge from the waters, a crude but cruel vicious bone blade is produced from the lead figure.

Nothing is said, the approaching slik with the dagger comes forth and pressed the blade against the female and slaughters her, the slik turns and with a grin announces to his comrades:

“Sisters and brothers, the last of the bloodline usurpers have been slain, feast on these carcass and devour its spawn, Long live the king, long live Zantoria!”

Zantoria

The king, Sthlyty, sits upon his throne of skulls and bones. Decorated highly with battle honours and scars, his bright purple and dark blues contrast against the waters around him, Sthlyty comparison to regular sliks thrice outmatch them, in size, muscle and furiosity, his bloodline is strong and been clearly successful . He sits confident with a large two handed serrated bone straight sword over his knees. The throne upon a mound of peddles, towers over everyone occupying the cavern. At the base of the mound Sthlyty blood brothers and honour guard stand looking fierce tooled up with vicious looking bone weaponry that keeps the common sliks at bay, while the king audits bureaucracy and tedious civil matters. Generally improving the infrastructure of his new kingdom, and ordering the smaller folk to expand Zantoria living space to deal with the influx of emigrating sliks coming from the smaller tribes and warlords to pledge loyalty to the new king and too obey the desire of centralised population for the greater good of the diminished sikitook tonrar.

January 8-20, 1 A.D

Raising the walls

Though there has only been a few messengers sent back, the newly-crowned king knows that his subjects won't take the plan of a monarchy well. In fact, he already has received proof about that very quickly. There have began raidings into the town, but more intense raids than those that happen every once in a while. These can't just happen because the people have gone wild, but the rebel leaders have decided to attack the king. The ones that responded approving the decision were personal friends of the king, but the king deep below thought that they weren't enough. Eventually he fears that the attackers will eventually join up and destroy his short-lived kingdom.

The council of the town of Umufing, which is the capital of the Varisvaara, is reuniting and is going to discuss the subject of how to resist the incursions from the rebellion and eventually, how they will be defeated.

The talks dragged on for hours and found no definitive conclusion on how to defeat the rebels, but they did draw a conclusion to what to do to defend Umufing. They planned to make the village harder to access. They will do this by surrounding much of the city with logs, with open spaces in the walls that may be used to lure the enemy and ambush them once they are inside. The construction will take about two months, but many think it's worth the pain. In addition to that, the land cleared could later be used for farming according to the council.

Tibiruz, Ghoriaid Shahzada

Tibiruz, the high cloud city of the Ghoriash dynasty. Carved in stone atop the crown of mountains over the Tibir valley the city itself was shrouded almost all year long by thick clouds that washed from the sea. To mingle between the fingers and claws of the jagged mountain desert. To never drop its rain much further than the dynastic leadership could enthrall itself to rule. Besides, though the family may lay claim to far-flung settlements beyond the olive green groves and fields below there was nary enough to make their claims worth it. Dry rocks and brightly banded clay with the few snaking yards of string that were rivers.

Out there, the stench of the air was reputed to be like sulfur. Smoke could often be seen rising from the inner most distant mountains. And even the ground rumbled and shook as if scratching some itch too deep between its shoulders to reach properly. Even from the air that land was noxious and offensive. And when the wind was right the rotting smell of its salt and the distant gurgling of something hot could be heard in hot dry winds.

To many of the Kharkuz Pegasi, the land beyond the civilized expanse of their king's rule was a land their God, Manzada Mura left to abandon in creation. Where the cool wet salts of the sea could not reach and wish to soften and tame the Land of Drusj. Even closer to the surface, the safety of the green valley pastures where the soft, clean glacial melt fed the soil it was considered better. Where there were yet mountains so tall that water came trapped, frozen. Melting down the side over the years into long silver water falls that cascaded into forests of low lying mist. Here was heaven. Here it was said the promise of the afterlife could be seen for all. Here was the land of well-tended Ashja. Even to the Paspud of the Parsjik. In the north. Or the Aspanjid of the Parsid in the low green stoney hills, cradled between the barbarians and the Coast Lands.

But the illusion of heaven was to no degree twisted within the court of the Ghoria dynasty. Whose stone carved palace had gutted completely the peak of the city's highest crown. Beaten by hooves and picks stone columns thicker than any tree trunk help up the carved domed peak of the high mountain. A wide walk-way and flight deck encircled the columned complex, running out and in like the morning star. Brazers burned night and day at the tips and wearing paint trimmed and outlined the shape of the star in bold clear lines.

The columns themselves were painted over in broad geometric shapes. Painted in colored clays and mineral mixes where repeating tessellations of swirling, dancing fractals that shrunk and grew from central stalks like strange plants before ending in circles the size of a hoof. Bright blues, soft greens, and vibrant reds adorned the columns.

Under the roof of the carved peak the palace was a carved set of rooms, and a single chamber opened from end to end to the outside, cool mountain air. With a low enclosed wall locked by weighty iron rods sat a throne, raised on a stone platform. Within the curling, crudely carved feathers of its granite nest sat perched the slouched figure of the agape Shah of the Ghoriaid.

A simpleton in nature, the Shah Padshi was a young stallion of twenty-five. His eyes were glazed over in deep incompetence, ignorant to the world or even his own awareness. What would be the bright energetic gleaming of blue eyes of the sharpest caret of sapphires was instead a murky glow of a faded, stormy sky. His lids hung low over them as his mouth wide open, occasionally spilling out droplets of saliva as he listened – without knowing – the pleads of his court.

He lacked any and all attention span to think of. He swayed in his throne, gently kept in place by the warm sunset-yellow hoof of his aunt who stood by as regent. Her long golden hair was a hypnotizing mystery to the shah, as his eyes crawled sluggishly up the long brushed strings of thick mane. Wrapped in braids that fell across her thick feminine neck he felt an almost warm glow under his many ceremonial robes, tucked safely between his legs. Though he understood not what it was.

“Yes, we shall remember your request and take it with me to the treasury.” the Shah's aunt said in a soft voice. Her bright shimmering sky-blue eyes looked down from the throne to the distant subject far from their platform. She wore a smile always, even when addressing the common pegasi that came to seek some ruling from their lord.

“I-is this what the Shah says?” the farmer said, shocked. In recent weeks he had claimed outlaws were stealing his crop. He wished for some manner of protection. He wished to not pay exorbitant protection from the very outlaws who stole from him. He was a dirty buck, with a wild patchy mane and a desperate gleam in his eyes. He was not well fed, though he was not starving. He was a lean worker.

The shah's agent – Regent Faria – merely looked down at her nephew, still wearing the sad smile she wore through the days. The attentions of court had long waned on the young Shah as he gazed down as a beetle scurrying across the granite and marble that made his throne.

“C'ush, c'ush.” he said quietly as he rose a jeweled hoof, “C'ush, c'ush.” he repeated, bringing his hoof down on the small helpless beetle. With a loud crunch it was crushed under the the young stallion's hoof as he stared down at it like a infant foal. Or even more empty.

Faria could not help but pity him. She herself had not managed to bear foals, many of her attempts having been aborted in miscarriage. For a time she had sired a living son, though he had passed from illness. Had he lived, and had her brother sired more than daughters before he passed the empty vessel that sat on the throne would not have risen to power. It was humiliating to say the least, and it dug her greatly. The Queen-Mother had even abandoned the child when the effect of his accident had become fully realized. Having fallen from the cliffs he had hit his head. He survived, but he was greatly stunted and was still – in full adulthood – an unfortunate child.

All the same, he was the closest Faria had to son; as much as he was a joke. And he was blood. By blood she was bound to defend him. By blood, perhaps she'd at least find a means to save her brother's line and to pray that his retardation was not rolled on another by their God.

“Yes, that is an absolute.” Faria called back. Her confidence wavered, and she was afraid if it would be sniffed out by the hounds that inhabited the court. She saw it throughout the days. The hunting prying looks of the adept nobility. The unfortunate Shah they served wasn't just a burden. But to the court he was too many a means to exercise their way. If any of them could take advantage of the Shah there would be disastrous effects. Especially to his kin. There was no killer swifter to a kingdom than the greed of its own nobility. In stronger kings they could be held at a hoof's length, or by the point of a spear. But they hovered. They hovered too close around Padshi.

“Oh...” the farmer stammered uncertain, “Well, thank you, m'lady.” he bowed. But he was still uncertain, or cautious. He was hesitant as he left. Before turning to trot briskly for the cavernous exit.

The hollow clapping of his hooves echoed off the great vaulted central chamber. Stepping out into the sunlight he unfurled his wings, and threw himself into the air and taking flight for home.

“Your majesty, and regent,” the court crier decreed loudly. He was a middle-aged stallion, of minimal nameless pursuit. But he had a loud voice. There was debate within the court if he might perhaps call out to the entire city from the palace stoop, though it had never been made good on. “If we may proceed we have appointments for Nawab-Marshall of Ti-”

“I do not think it'll be needed.” Faria called back to the crier, cutting him off. Wrapping a gentle hoof around the wide stocky shoulders of her nephew she added, “Padshi is feeling tired, and we might be best to retire for a moment for him to regain his breath.”

“Certainly Shahzada-Regent Faria, if it is your wish. For how long?”

“Let us cease the afternoon hearing for fifteen minutes for Padshi to dine.” Faria said, helping her nephew from his throne. He staggered and lingered – rear legs stretched lazily over the throne – onto the rough stone of the throne's plinth. She heard the soft crunch of the beetle's remnants under his hoof.

“As you wish.” the crier bowed. Whispered murmurs carried like a breath of wind as the nobility dispersed in the great hall and scattered to the many faces of the sky. Sneering down at them, Faria led her nephew from the platform. She scoured in cold disgust for his court. And they no doubt returned the favor in silent kind, hidden behind masks of emotional disassociation.

From the prying predatory gaze of the nobility Padshi was lead. Behind the columns of the throne chamber, and into one of the dozen side-halls. Leaving the glow of day light they both entered into a room lit by softly crackling brazers. A soft warmth filled the room, and the sweat smells of fruits. In the corner, a pair of shaved-mane eunuchs stood waiting for orders. Stacks of simply packed and embroidered cushions littered the floor by a great wooden table laden with exotic sweat fruits on silver coastal trays.

“Faria, is there anything we can assist with?” asked the servants as they came out from the corners.

“No, no, there is nothing.” Faria said, “Though I would have a rag if you have one.” she asked.

“Your honor.” bowed one, pulling from a saddle pouch at his side a plain white silken rag with his mouth.

“Thank you.” she smiled cordially before taking the piece of cloth. “You may wait outside the door, if we need anything I shall call.” she said as she passed the cloth from mouth to hoof, excusing them with the other as she sat back on her haunches.

The eunuchs bowed as one. They were loyal silent servants. But their one mindedness and their castration she found eerie. Being neither a stallion or a mare made them different, perhaps too different. They were to her something existing between life and death. They even looked ghostly, with paler coats and a hauntingly wise expression. They were pegasi who saw much, but spoke little.

As they left the room Faria turned back to her nephew, scooping up his hoof and holding it up into the fire light. Smeared underneath was the snotty broken remnants of what was once a beetle. Its yellow and white guts an indistinguishable mess from tip to frog.

“Oh Padshi, why do you do such things.” she said as she whipped the linen across her hoof delicately, cleaning off the smeared death from under neath. He gave no indication he was aware, simply opting to stare blankly into space, or into Faria.

Her eyes turned to her nephews and her smile grew back as a mother's, and not one keeping an act. “At least you are not crushing the heads of your kin.” she smiled weakly, “And it is only insects. But your hooves are none the cleaner.” she laughed.

Setting down his hoof she sighed, distressed and perturbed for her nephew. “I know you're in there.” she sighed, half pleading as she craned her head to look into those gray misty eyes of his. “You were there once. You were such a bright kid. Smart too. You had been blessed with all the wisdom of the Ashja, just as your grandfather had. But it's no doubt fragile, as the Magi profess.” she smiled weakly, “How is it?

“A stallion as handsome of you would be cursed so richly. If your feathers were far less ruffled, your blades sharper, and if we were all there mares the kingdom over would be seeking to court you. Yet...”

She gave a distressed sigh, shaking her head as Padshi slumped sluggishly to the side. He grunted incoherently as he looked up at the ceiling. Faria didn't know is he knew what was going on. The only thing left for her was to simply hope he knew.

Faria reached out a warm hoof, gently brushing it down the Shah's cheeck. “You will need to be taken to the river.” she laughed warmly, “There is a smell about you. I do doubt you have not been bathed in over two months.

“Clean waters do much. But I only hope they could return the sharp filly we knew.”