He'd been separated from the zebra foal Oleander by another Vulture attack, and beyond that, the haze and heat of the Marsh. He was still trying to find her, of course, but he was going utterly the wrong way, though he didn't know it.

The cover that the Crucible offered seemed to him a likely landmark, and he was tottering up along the crevices, calling out. Wounds still lay open--if dried, at least, and beginning to heal--along his face and all along one shoulder.

"OLEANDER-?" he called, and stumbled against the rock. Upright, again, he came; knobbled knees and dainty hooves scuffed the stone and sent red dust in plumes around him. He struggled, his breath coming in pants. Perhaps it had been a mistake trying to climb up here. Something about the smoothness of the dry riverbed, the worn nature of the bits of wood and stone strewn here and there, bothered him in a way that his instincts would not leave alone.

"OLEANDER!" he cried, again, and paused; his mouth hung open, tiny tongue hanging out, his lips peeled back in a grimace as he panted for air. The whites of his eyes were a faint crescent, his little flanks heaving.

Ears pinned, head lowered, and--instinct driving him once again--he strove to make an impact, to draw attention to himself, and perhaps find Oleander.

The ground all around him trembled, faintly, the pebbles and dust atop it shaking and puffing. He stumbled and halted the magic, staring around him. I did that-? He had, he realized. But what could did it do? Oleander wasn't answering.

Was she okay..? Warrior felt grief strike him. What if she wasn't-?

Disturbed by the trembling from its crevice in the rock, a Sand Scorpion pulled its way into the open. Clattering limbs slowly unfurled, the golden-glinting carapace--fully three feet long--dragging itself into the light.

Pincers the size of Warrior's skull, a tail the same size, waved slightly in the hot air. Many black eyes, glinting, turned and settled on the foal. Slowly, it took a few clattering steps toward him--as if examining its potential prey.

Warrior may attempt to deter the scorpion from attacking him. A failure will result in a sting. A critical failure will result in a severe injury from the pincers as well.

The foal hesitated, staring at the ungodly creature that had just unfurled itself like some withered cluster of leaves from within the very rock.

Two steps back, wavering.

A snort of uncertainty.

A flick of his ears--this way, then that. As it lurched a few paces toward him, fear and ferocity gripped him both. He dipped his head, ears pinning, neck arching--and reared back, coming down with another flare of magicka. When his tiny hooves touched down, offering the rock only a slight scuffling and puff of dust, his magic slammed down harder. The ground again rattled, trembling, and as Warrior again tossed his head and snorted--fire in his eyes--the pebbles shook and rattled.

"No," he told the scorpion, sternly--and then, turning to call out, as if reminded--"OLEANDER?"

At the ground's tremble, the scorpion stopped its advancing. It held its place, claws again waving vaguely in the air.

It would not attack, for now; the magic had given it pause. It would not leave, either; more likely it would linger, unwilling to reenter the crevice during what felt like a minor earthquake, and only retreat once Warrior had gone.

Learning life lessons in Hydra was a good thing. Warrior knew now to watch the skies, and beware the vultures. The sting and claws of the scorpion looked nasty, but perhaps it might have taught him more to be stung--to learn the effects, the damage it inflicted. But such lessons were difficult to survive.

The foal, already wounded, was perhaps lucky that this lesson didn't get so far. Instead he stood, facing down the scorpion, until their stare-off in the dusty heat began to make him more and more uncomfortable. More nervous. Hooves shifted on the rock, ears again flicking to and fro, and the belligerent defiance he'd shown moments ago faded.

Warrior turned, and--glancing back repeatedly to ensure the thing wasn't following--began to rapidly pick his way up the slope of the ravine. Behind him, his short tail flagged outward like a banner, not yet flowing with silky black but more a fuzzy stub.

Lanky legs took him higher and higher, and as if to ensure his own safety, to warn the scorpion not to follow him, he paused and leapt in place, bringing his magicka again down with him. With this last trembling and shaking of little stones, he turned and cantered farther into the shadows of the Crucible.

He could smell water, here--and cleaner stuff than he'd had in the Marsh; and somewhere close, the temptation of greenery drifted on the wind. Warrior wound his way at a quick trot among the boulders, weaving through the canyon until he came out at a new place. A sparkling creek ran past, where this gap opened into a wider canyon; greenery ran along its shores, and its walls provided at least a little shade, here and there.

This-... This could be a home.

He paused, ears flicking, staring out at the water and the grass, but he could see nothing. No danger. No movement, even, bar the gentle shifting of water and grass. "Oleander-?" he called, hesitant now, but when nothing answered him, he made his way to the brook.

Moments later he was engrossed in drinking, and then in grazing along the water's edge, his sweaty hide flicking the flies away.

Danakil had followed the scent of grass wafting through the windblown canyon. It had been a while since she emerged from the rose quartz chrysalis, and had plenty of time getting used to her legs. She paced with intent, still naive to the dangers that lurked through the Crucible.

Food was on her mind. She hadn't had anything to eat since she hatched and her lack of a hump was evidence. Her stomach rumbling at the thought.

The camel calf's cream coat stood out against the clay-brown rocks of the over pass. Her neck stretch forward, sniffing. It was just up ahead. Danakil quicker her pace but strange echoes made her slow.

It sounded like a voice.

It rang throughout the canyon. Danakil looked around, but she couldn't pin point where it was coming from. Strange. It almost sounded like it was saying "Oleander".

Danakil continued upwards, but more carefully. The weird phenomenon had given her pause. She did not quite know what to think of it. Should she call out? Perhaps it was just the wind.

Either way, food first, then investigate.

The path Danakil took eventually led to a creek, a little oasis in the middle of the hot, dry labyrinth. Its bubbling stream and sweet smelling grass looked inviting. Her pink eyes lit up with delight and she made a beeline for the most succulent spot. Danakil was too busy gorging herself, stuffing her face with delicious grass and shoots, that she never noticed the young colt who shared the creek too.

@Warrior

He drank his fill, and then began to browse the river's edges. His gait was slow, meandering, his nostrils taking in the captivating scents of grass and brush; purely by chance had he found the only real source of edible foliage in Hydra.

Dainty foal-hooves carried him farther, so that he almost didn't hear the soft step of the camel calf some distance behind.

His head came up, ears pricking to identify the quiet shuffling he'd thought he'd heard--and as he spotted her, he froze. Fear trickled through him, and he stared, for a moment, at the creature that seemed to be doing the same thing that he was doing--was it dangerous..? Was it another like the vulture--something that would attack him, tear at his flesh--or was it like Oleander, a child, lost-?

"H-Hello-?" he called out, at last, hesitantly.

@Danakil

It was that voice again, but this time, it was no distant echo. It was here. Danakil lifted her head, rather non-chalantly, pulling up a mouthful of shoots. Her big, round eye blinked, focusing on the colt across the stream. Danakil never stopped chewing, even as she the rest of her paused to look at him. She swishes her tail. Was this the oleander guy?

Just as awkwardly, Danakil replied with her mouth still full. "Hmmwoh? She chewed some more then plodded across the stream towards him, sloshing loudly through clear water. "Ooy a oweeaner ai?" She said to him, still muffled by cheekfuls of grass. It never occurred to Danakil that she was difficult to understand with her mouthful, or that others might consider it gross or rude. However, in her defense, she was literally born yesterday.

@Warrior

He stared, for a moment, at the camel with tattered blades of grass half-hanging from her jaws.

"...What?" he said, at last, without the slightest idea of what the thing had said.

This one not attacking, at least. But the relief was muddied into nervousness by his confusion. Was this some foreign language-? Was it a trick...?

When it did not respond, he decided to play it cautious, and simply left, skirting down the river and away.

@Danakil

exiting due to inactivity

The camel chewed up the grass and swallowed it. "I saaaid are you the 'oh-lee-and-err' guy?" She tilted her head and curiously stuck it forward. "Because you sound just like 'em!" Danakil continued to encroach on the colt's personal space, sniffing his face and coat.

A unique stench l stood out against the smell of sweat an dust, clashing with the colt's own personal scent. Danakil had never smelled anything like it before, but she instinctively knew what it was.

Blood.

"Oh," Danakil pulled her head back and blinked in surprise. She spied the wounds on his face and neck. His flesh was torn open. Although had no point of reference to know how bad the gashes were, or what caused them, Danakil's stomach still sank. Her voice trembled with concern."You're hurt." She looked up at the colt, her large, pink eyes searching, worried.

@Warrior