Labradorite Five-Four-Six let out some heavy breaths as he came to a slow-down. He didn't keep running for now; but he knew how difficult the final stretch could be. He didn't want to rush the long run, and risk dying from exhaustion half an hour into it.

Instead, slowing down to a walk, he spent his magicka regaining what energy he'd already lost, in prepreation.

Labradorite is staying behind.

DESERT ROSE THIRTY-FIVE
broken bones, set at home

The air was worse than Hell itself. It only got worse as the final leg transitioned over the salt flats- up in the ‘sky’, the heat reflected off of the white salt to poison the air with heat. Thirty-Five’s lungs labored as he locked his wings in a gliding position. The only thing good about these flats were the thermals he could coast on. While he still planned for this final, long flight, nothing could prepare his skin and scales for the blistering light above and below.

The dragon didn’t even dare look down- he’d definitely be blinded if he looked anywhere except for the end. This far back, he couldn’t see it. It would take upwards of an hour or so to even see the dot in the distance, if it was even open. There were others who refused to take part, so maybe it would’ve closed to keep them out.

As Thirty-Five soared, his mind mulled over the future. He didn’t remember being able to deny the trials. Perhaps things have changed. How long was he really asleep in that chrysalis? These other creatures, they seemed… Weak. Weaker than the others he remembered. They were basic to a fault.

Thirty-Five grit his teeth on his feather as he flapped just once, feeling like he was breathing out fire over his dry tongue. He should have stopped to drink in the Crucible. This was Hell. The others had refused- he could have refused. Groaning, he shut his eyes as he caught an updraft into the air, refusing to look where he was going. Caves, take him now, this was absolutely awful.

Bile rose in his throat as he continued before looking back to the ground with squinted eyes, scanning dangerously for his brother.

There. Thirty-Five dipped slightly towards him in acknowledgement, ears folded against his neck. Hopefully he would be okay. He looked like he was doing okay. Thirty-Five sighed as he looked back to his goal, drawing his free hanging limbs closer to his body. He could get through this.

Thirty-Five is moving forward.

The Agate was a tired straggler keeping up the very tail end of the pack, but they hadn't given up. They would never give up.

They stuck along side Mayngo, for better or for worse, through it all. They had seen signs of the other competition-- dead corpses, blood, sweat, tears, phantoms and pawprints and shadows-- but they truly could not tell if they were imagining these things or not.

Thankfully, their throat had gone completely dry by now, and no more squawking came out to bother the fossa's ears. They merely kept rank with their companion as they crossed the hot and dry land, though they wanted to tell Mayngo not to trust their eyes through this stretch as much as the last. Their voice was gone, and they had only their mind left to occupy them.

Gatto had a reason to reach the end. They did not know if Ru and Asimona, or any of the others, truly survived, but they would not let the survivors be without one obnoxious cockatrice, that was for damn sure.

agate is staying at the back.

Shango was--for lack of a better word--suffering.

One hind leg was broken, twisted and snapped from his struggle in the Dead Marsh. The pain sharply ached at every limping step of his other feet, at every slight movement of his body. His head hung low, mouth slightly parted, lips peeled back in a grimace as he rapidly panted. His wings hung loose at his sides, their tips trailing down, and his tail outright dragged along the ground. Every step was slow, a limp.

His magicka had drained, too. He could barely think, let alone focus on creating wind or storm, though he'd been gathering himself to try. The baking sun was simply too much for him. It had gotten to the point where he was delirious, seeing shimmers dancing in the air ahead--sometimes, he thought he saw Asimona and the rest, perhaps not realizing (or caring, after what he'd almost done to Ru) that Shango had fallen far behind.

He began to stumble halfway through the Salt Flats, nothing very much left of any coherent thought that the Stormbringer had had to begin with.

He paused, and hesitated, swaying--then tentatively reached for his magicka. There was no storm--no wind, no rain. This time, it was something much simpler.

A banana.

A plain, life-giving fruit, full of moisture and energy. It wasn't the largest banana, and it took serious focus to create it, but once it popped into existence, he ate it entirely--peel and all.

He felt energy return--and the water within, however slight, helped him. His wings came up just that little bit, and though his tail still dragged, it wasn't as lifeless as before. His pace picked up, and the blurry images ahead became that much clearer.

He could do this. Through rain, wind, and... bananas, he would manage. If barely.

Shango is moving ahead.

Imp watched Reseda fade into the distance. He didn't really care. He sort of, vaguely, hoped she'd die, but not in a really emotionally-involved sort of way. Back behind him, the other group seemed to be doing well enough. One of them had been struggling, and Imp turned, intending to let them catch him up.

Another had rolled in the mud, and that seemed like a good idea--so he did the same, wallowing for a moment in the rancid muck of the Dead Marsh before setting out over the Salt Flats.

What lay ahead was shitty. Hot--WAY TOO HOT. He felt like his wings were burning, even past the mud, and the glare of the salt flats on his eyes--well, if he wasn't half-alligator, and at least a little evolved to handle water-glare, he'd have been near blind by now. As it was it was hard to see anything but "white" and "vague shapes that shimmered too much and made him feel sick." Or was the "sick" bit coming from the heat..? It was hard to tell.

Imp also couldn't seem to decide between walking, and trying to fly. He'd plod on for awhile, feet burning, then take to the air. The air was hot enough that his wings could mostly support him--but there were no thermals to ride. Instead, it was just dead heat, wholly still air that seemed motionless, more a picture than a real cave. He hated that. But then again, he was a good, sandy color--not a white that would burn, and not a black that would draw in all the heat. He was mostly furless, with big, broad ears, so he was dissipating heat well. And his jaws were broad, so parting them for even a few moments dispersed even more. But the outside was still hotter than his body, and he was weary from the prior battles and struggles. All things considered, he was doing pretty well--but this place still sucked.

The swamp had been wet, treacherous, but at least it'd been cool. The heat ahead was extreme.

He, like Shango, knew how to summon bananas. And he didn't intend to try and rush off ahead. He wanted to fall behind, to stick with the other group. That meant that going the distance was more important than going for speed. He paused, working on creating a fruit of his own--wholly unaware that not far, someone else was doing the same thing--and sat for a few minutes to try and let the others catch up. He ate it, as he did so, banana goop coating his face--and when a nearby scorpion sat staring at him, he even lobbed a tiny bit of fruit at the thing.

"You eat fruit? Have some," he offered. The scorpion waddled forward and started to pinch at the offering, though whether it was actually eating it, Imp could not tell.

The banana and a rest gave him the energy, so he hoped, to finish the "race"--and soon the others were coming up behind him.

"Heya," he offered. "That lizard was an asshole. Not you," he added, toward Amazon.

Imp was unaware that he was sparkling, glowing and glittering, rather fabulously, with the banana's magic--which looked even stranger, really, in the hot desert light.

Imp is progressing... backward

Vargas had left the Merchant and the rest. They would likely go ahead, around to the cave mouth--awaiting the winners--while he, Vargas, picked up the stragglers.

The act of "picking up" stragglers was not as kind or helpful as it sounded, though it was generally, if one were to be honest, a mercy. A slow heat death was perhaps not preferable to a quick shake and a snap of the neck. That being said, Vargas was not out to drag down and kill those who simply moved slowly. That was not his goal. The trials were, in his mind, just that--the trials. He was there to clean up, yes, but even the slowest among them--so long as they did not collapse on the baking salt flat--would find him only lingering behind at a distance. Ominous perhaps, but not particularly dangerous. It was those who fell, unable to continue, dying, that would feel his teeth in their throat.

Even for him, the heat was searing. He disliked it; he liked prowling Hydra at night, when the temperatures dropped so far as to be cold, when coils of ripping air tore through at twilight and at dawn. He enjoyed hunting in the darkness.

Ahead of him, he could see a few test subjects. The cockatrice was first, and the fossa with it--its skull fallen away. Both seemed to be alive, well enough, but he'd seen them both struggle badly in the marsh.

Slowly he paced along behind them, his massive bulk and long forelimbs spiderlike as he lurked--but he kept his distance, for now.

Beyond them was the spotted creature, with its black wings--it had been a strange one, at times casting magic that seemed rather unrelated to the situation at hand, and now it definitely appeared to be faltering. A possible failure, Vargas made a mental note. If Shango fell, he'd be on him in a minute or two--he was not so far behind.

Past that--and near-lost to the haze of shimmering heat-waves--was the largest group, one that had chosen to stick together. The dragon certainly had much to do with their survival--the rest had rallied around her, and she'd rescued more than one of them, as one had rescued her. He was, in his own way, proud of them: a successful trial spoke only good things, and those that managed to band together and survive were those he always somewhat-grudgingly admired. Though he'd never have told Astraea or Nemean in such words, he did root for them, in a sense. Survivors meant success. Success was good. Failures were to be torn away, yes, but the ones who pressed on were winners.

So far, none of them had fallen to the heat--but Vargas knew that as the group went on, there was every possibility that he would find--as he so often did--one of them fallen by the wayside, left to die in the dust.

The heated air stung his face, and Mayngo couldn't remember the last time he had taken off his skull. It was an odd feeling, and for a long moment all he could do was squint. It was so bright!

But, no, that wasn't just the light of the room. It was the light of the salt, glaring off of it. But they had to keep going, and so he plodded along, panting in the heat, his paws stinging, back throbbing, shoulder screaming, sensitive, scarred head complaining. He held desperately onto the feathers he had gathered, mouth dry.

A few times, his shoulder gave, threatened to buckle. But he never let his eye leave Gatto, focusing on the quieted Cockatrice, and remembered Vinnie--he wouldn't let his death be in vain--and kept going.

Mayngo is: staying at the back with Gatto

With each step, the dog struggled to keep on his paws.

He couldn't seem to keep a straight line, weaving and staggering, his head throbbing. It had hurt since the encounters with the Vultures, and only gotten worse since then. His sight whirled, mind foggy.

The brightness from the sands was agony, each blink making his head throb just that much worse, and he raised his head to try and keep it out of his eyes.

His vision flickered, and he retched, emptying his stomach as his legs buckled, finally dropping to the ground with a squealed yelp, stars dancing in front of his eyes. His trophy sat just in front of his nose.

Speech. Thought.

Okay so uh, hauling ass for a couple hours?

Bad idea.

The dog found himself sagging within a few strides inside of the Salt Flats, coat soaked in sweat. He stumbled, the Will o' the Wisps dancing in front of him, tongue lolling out of his mouth around his trophy.

Bad, bad idea.

He'd hit the end of his adrenaline, of his panic, and was just plain exhausted.

The dog staggered, eyes rolling, whimpering low in his throat as his legs went out from beneath him, collapsing to the ground.

I've been on a lonely tripdragging along a lonely shadow

Ru wasn't quite sure what was going on. They hadn't been since falling into the swamp. Everything was a jumbled mess in their mind, only vaguely remembering a loud buzzing and a grating voice, then the mud once more, then nearly suffocating, and finally being freed. Somewhere in the mix they heard Asimona's voice. It wasn't until later that Ru replied though, weary from the ordeal in the swamp. The only thing that had even convinced Ru to move was the knowledge that Overseer Vargas was behind them somewhere, ready to finish them off. Ru would not die today.

"Thank you." They said, to the gembound who'd attempted to assist them, voice hoarse. They still weren't quite sure who had assisted them. But they would not reveal that. To show how out of sorts they were was to show weakness. It would not beneath the Overseer's gaze. Ru may have been coated in mud and exhausted, but they would do their best to hide it. Ru was surprised that any gembound helped it--besides Asimona, the one that owed it a life debt. But it would make it up to this collection of gembound. It felt a smidge of guilt for the way it had treated them, as if expendable, but quieted the thoughts. It did not know if it could protect a group of this size, especially in its current state, but it would try. Ru stands, ignoring the ache, the scream of its muscles, head held high.

"Lets move on." Their mouth tasted of mud and bitter, acidic water. And it would for a while.

Ru takes their first shaky step into the flats. The crocodile beast was here, which was suprising. Even more suprising was the way it sparkled. It wouldn't have imagined something waiting to cross. Or imagined that it could glow. But it had seen stranger. They resisted the urge to shake out their neck and aggravate the wounds. The mud upon their hide already drying and cracking, growing heavier and hotter in the heat. But at least it would serve to deflect some of the heat. They cast a glance back, where Agate was sure to be somewhere. They would be fine. If their team could survive the flood, they could survive the flats. With a sigh, Quartz Five-Two-Four prepare their magicka for the flats ahead. They use Pickup, small gusts helping them walk. Faster than their previous pace, but still arduously slow. Each step was hellish, but Ru would not stop moving. Slowly but surely, they cross the flats.