A thin patina of sweat lay snail-slicked upon Chrysalis' chitinous brow, and under the imperious gaze of the plummeting sun it shimmered a dozen different colours and matted her mane like strips torn from a well-worn rug. Her features were twisted by both drive and exertion; her muzzle curled up in a menacing sort of half snarl, half frown which sat far too comfortably upon her countenance, as if she'd worn it many times before, perhaps more often than not.
She lifted a hoof, tried to push onwards. But the magic held her back and she could go no further. At length she pulled against it, hunched her body like so and flicked her hoof like that, but she could eke out little more than an inch or two before the line drew taut and she stood there, frozen, trembling, leaning into a non-existent gale and her muscles corded and screaming.
Finally, she collapsed to the ground, grass tickling her belly. Her hooves went to her horn once, grazing the mechanism upon it, but only briefly; seconds out of hours.
The sun fell. The world pulled night over itself like a blanket of stars and galaxies and mysteries uncountable. Purple hooves soon roused her from her stupor, arriving in a ragged, breathless gallop.
"I found you some flowers," Chrysalis said simply, though she didn't really want them anymore.