It’s not someone she knows who approaches, but the palomino form is one she’s seen around and there is something comforting by that. When Mazikeen turns to look at the elder mare, that small movement unbalances her completely and her legs fold beneath her and she is suddenly lying down.
Pain shoots through her at this abrupt change in position and her head shakes back and forth as she tries to clear away the fog. The folding of her legs has reopened one of the cuts that had finally started to scab and fresh blood joins the dried in a small steady stream.
The question posed helps to anchor her to the present and she doesn’t pass out. Her orange eyes are unfocused, staring off instead of at the mare. Her voice quiet and hoarse, and Mazikeen wonders whether it is from screaming.
She doesn’t remember screaming.
“There was a…. A wolf but not in the forest. Not an animal, something new.”
Only then does she turn her orange eyes to the palomino stranger, pain and confusion written in every bloody and dirt-caked line on her body but those eyes are free from tears even as the pain threatens to drown her. “I can’t seem to die.”
@[craft]