Hydra was light again. The blasting heat curled around it, seeping deep into its worn plating and carapace; not deep enough to clear out that... peculiar hollow feeling in it. It could hardly swallow or breathe through its mouth; it was dry as a bone and felt like it was stuffed full of cotton. Blazing eyes were dull and stung, and it wanted to blame the sand swirling in for that.

The Masked Merchant had gone into the marsh in search of two stones - an orthoclase and an oilslicked onyx. He came back with the latter and the wicked halberd it once held. Not a glint of pale yellow. Not even a single facet. Completely gone, he said, embedded into the mire. Not verbatim, but close enough. It held the same gravity, the same central point: she was gone.

It did not have a desire or any true yearning for creature comforts (of course, it had yet to experience any of them in a tangible enough capacity to find a want for them.) It lacked attachments it was conscious of - except for this one. This infuriating one. A beast it'd met once, sparred with once. Wanted to spar against once. Next time would've been with weapons, a contest of strength. Next time would've been -

Next time would've been different. Maybe it would've lost. Maybe it would've won again. Maybe they would have tied and shared a kinship in their own strength void of businesslike demeanor and practices. No worries about hierarchy or rank or respect or names or caring about if you had a place or if you were good enough to live. Just stone-giver and spawn. Just...

Just...

Just mother and child.

A strangled noise escaped Alpha, and it stood abruptly as if to escape it. It shuffled sideways on unsteady limbs, pausing dead-center of the cave's entrance. The orthoclase gouged deep ruts into the rock, standing with shoulders squared off and hiked up. Another noise stole out and was muffled behind pearly whites. Toxic eyes glared behind it. Nothing. No one. It was alone as far as it could see - but it could not hear the silence of spies or those watching. It could not hear the distance past the roaring wind of Hydra rushing down the tunnel and tousling its quills.

No matter how much it wanted to, it wasn't going to scream. It was going to bottle that wretched noise up.

Magicka coiled through its being, rubbing against itself and the luminescent points of its quills rising up and up and up, prickling like hackles. Electricity crackled out of its stone, burning-hot and incandescent, sparking through the air like a shot. It seared the rock of either wall in a jagged arc, carving scores of flash-melted glass in the sand. Just like that, though, it left only the scent of ozone.

The orthoclase heaved. Six nostrils flared, sucking in air (it's not enough) and distilling it into (it isn't enough) oxygen in the lungs. It was upset, sad, grieving with no true knowledge of why. Cornered by emotion, it ignited into fury. It was always easier to be angry, to throw gasoline on the always-lit fire in its eyes and gut. It felt obsolete with this choked feeling in its throat, the strangled noise of a crippled animal struggling to get out. It didn't feel weak and outdated in its rage.

Breathing harshly, Alpha whirled around and stomped away from Hydra.

Pray for the Lesser or Greater that fell in its way.