He lay curled in a nest of grass himself, just a little upstream and well-hidden in the dark. That didn't mean he was hidden from things that could sense heat, or things that could smell, but so far the vultures hadn't spotted him from above, and he hadn't yet encountered the things known as sand worms.

Had he, he might have been hesitant to call out when he heard something rummaging at the water's edge. But thus far, he'd seen little on the ground that he could not outrun; the spiders and scorpions frightened him, but he could outdistance them well enough, even as a foal. He had not, thankfully, yet run into a giant one.

As for this quiet rustling, it was--he reasoned--probably a quillmouse, or one of the bone hares that slipped down, eerily skeletal in the darkness; or maybe even a deer. Still, the faint hope gripped him--was it Oleander--could it be? He'd lost the zebra filly who had hatched beside him, lost her just after they'd been attacked by a second vulture. He'd never seen her again, but it didn't stop him from calling softly out each time he heard something stir in the darkness. As it always did, his body tensed, both fear and hope curling higher within him.

"Oleander..?" came Warrior's voice, hopeful, hesitant. The foal didn't stand, yet, but he was tensed to spring away and to run. "Is that you?"

Warrior's ears pricked forward, nostrils flaring. The thing smelled just a little rank, faint, in the manner of snakes; and it moved... strangely. But he couldn't help but admit that it held a beauty all its own: graceful, elegant.

At its question, though (and certainly he was relieved that it was sentient, and not hostile), he pushed up. Long and knobbly little colt-legs unfolded beneath him, and he turned with a soft snort to nudge his own left front knee. Undoubtedly, the scabbed-over wounds across his face would be visible as he did this.

"I have legs. I don't--slither. My name is Warrior." He then paused, quizzically inspecting himself for a moment longer, before peering to the snake. "-Am I fat?" He hadn't thought that he was, but maybe this thing was older than him. It's smaller than me, though, he reasoned; surely that couldn't be right? But I've only been here a few days and I don't think I was that small. Maybe some stuff's just smaller. Like the mice.

V didn't look like a mouse, though. At least, he didn't think so.

Warrior turned at the sound, half-jumping, though part of him assumed it would just be another quillmouse, or the like. Puzzled, he peered for a moment at the Spire Spider's oddly hypnotic pattern, the strange way it swayed its colors and its body...

He stared, motionless, utterly entranced. Some distant part of his mind screamed a warning, but Warrior wasn't listening.

"It's so pretty," he murmured, taking two slow steps closer.

Perhaps it was the shaking ground, so like his own magic; or maybe it was that voice crying out in his head that something was wrong. Or maybe it was the sinister gleam of the spider's fangs slowly approaching.

Whatever it was, the foal blinked, and his mind swam up from its trance as if he were drowning in oil.

"Guh?" he managed, and then blinked again, and then whirled with the clumsy speed of youth. Instinct guided him: his hind legs lashed out, double hoof-tipped punches toward the spider... putting him, however, directly into striking range should he miss.

Against the odds, his little hooves connected; he felt a quiet crack and a squelch, and the unpleasant sensations of bristles underfoot and the brief scrape of a sharp point over keratin. His next motion took him in a rocking leap in the other direction.

"Run!" he squealed, in warning--and then side-eyed the rattlesnake. "Um. SLITHER!"

It was definitely time to flee.