Lion Head Mesa every beginning has within it the seeds of its own end

something has shifted since she'd left the challenger in the dirt. quite simply, she was fed up -- her soon-to-be right hand had vanished, discontent within their ranks was obvious. she'd tried, quite truly, to mold herself into a good leader; tried for tact and when the occasion called for it, diplomacy, even. bursts of rage, hate, served her only poorly. 

"black hat." he heads directly for her, and the yearling stills, watching him with dull-glazed gaze. "your claim," she answers, motioning to the ground he walks on. the motion is made stilted by a brief flare of pain across the side of her neck. damned Vanity. "this is it, then?" bronze meets gold, and her gaze narrows a fraction as it settles on an unexpected one. "rowan." she offers, gaze flicking back to her once-mentor after a moment.