After millennia of slumber, the ponies of Tambelon have awoken. For good or ill, they set their sights on the surface.
While she didn’t look like a featherhead, whatever method Elder Nightshade used to halt her infection was far from perfect. When she smiled, some teeth were clearly fused together.
“When did this start, dearie?”
“In the labyrinth,” Obsidian admitted, “Thrasher got me.”
Nightshade nodded, humming to herself as she examined the small wound and the discolored fur. Crag couldn’t help but fret over what was going to happen. If Elder Nightshade could heal featherhead, maybe she could slow down a scaleback infection or keep bipeds sane or…
Elder Nightshade clicked her tongue, hanging her head in disappointment.
“Stingtail.”
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