Within moments, he'd left the prairie behind and journeyed out over mountainous scrub. The earth was grassless here, hard and brown and mostly flat, save for towering cliffs and high-rising, strangely-shaped rock formations. There were trees and shrubs, so it wasn't exactly a desert, but it was terrain that Dawn had never seen before. He'd never thought that there could be places where there wasn't grass to eat or water to drink. What streams he saw were tiny and brown, probably more mud than anything else.

Because of the lack of trees, the hawk was easy to find — he caught up with surprising ease, in fact. When he spotted the dark shape of the raptor, he noticed that the bird was now slow and unhurried — clearly, it thought all the danger past. We'll see about that.

Working his legs hard, Dawn rose, until he was a ways above the bird, in a position for another downward blow. When to strike, though? He was close enough, but he didn't feel ready yet. For a moment, he regretted running off on his own — if Hawk had been there, she would have given him a reliable cue. Now, he had to figure this thing out on his own.

Maybe I need to get closer...?

Beneath him, the raptor landed: a craggy peak stretching up above an expanse of rocky ruins, one with a great, wide shadow plunging into the middle. The perch was just big enough to fit between its clawed feet. It began to preen, and Dawn recognized this perfect opportunity. He dove, the wind whistling past his ears...and then pulled up, thinking.

My shadow, he thought. If he sees it, he'll run again. The sun was behind him, thrusting it across the cliffs like a giant black stripe. He needed to go higher, circle around, and come at his prey from the other direction. Hopefully he's patient enough to wait for me!

Dawn angled his wings up and away, widening the berth between him and his quarry until he had made a wide pass around the wrinkly cliffs. The land's naked backside lay against a huge chasm, plunging down into a verdant green valley that was bifurcated by a river. Dawn dove out across this giant canyon, his heart hammering in his chest as he felt the great depth of space below him, felt the electrifying and irresistible pull of the plunge. His muscles and bones wanted to angle his wings, to succumb to the world's natural downward pull and slip into a reckless fall. 

Then he shook his head, snapping out of it. Maybe another day. He was far enough away from the group as it was — Thunder and Midnight would have choice words for him if it got back to them that he'd gone skydiving on his own.

Refocusing, he completed his circle, his legs churning and his wings beating hard as he made it back around to the barren buttes and scraggly towers of rock. The hawk was still there, preening its feathers, seemingly unaware. Dawn's heart pounded faster, and his wings cast off loose black feathers as he slowly rose, higher and higher, until he was far above the raptor, his shadow hidden far behind him.

Now, he thought. Too much further, and he would overshoot his prey. His wings dropped, and he plunged, and the bluster of the wind tearing past his ears nearly deafened him. He was yards away from his prey when he realized that he hadn't decided how to deliver the death blow. Hooves? My horn? Hooves — if he aimed with his horn he wouldn't be able to see, and would be as likely to hit the bird as another slope of rock two feet away and break his neck.

He brought his two front hooves together and came down on the bird like a falling boulder. And yet, something tipped the bird off two breaths before he landed — it turned suddenly, squawking in alarm, and spread its wings as it sprung up from its perch. The two crashed together, so suddenly and forcefully that Dawn almost forgot to beat his wings to slow his fall. He did, but a hair too late, and when his hooves hit the ground, he buckled, lurching down the slope of the rock face.

Cursing, Dawn scrabbled desperately at the stone with his hooves, but continued to go down, his wings flaring in a feathery panic. For a moment, he saw nothing by dry stone and gravel as he tumbled end over end down a narrow path, and ended up flat on his stomach at the bottom, atop a blanket of small stones that bit into his flesh like teeth. He groaned.

Well, that could have gone better. Shakily, he got to his feet, and winced. There was a small cut at one of his ankles, and he bent down to lick the wound. Luckily, nothing else appeared to be injured — or broken. Looking over his shoulder, he extended his wings. Though bruised and missing a few feathers, they were fine; he shuddered to think of what might've happened if he hadn't had the mind to flap before he'd crashed to the ground.

That stupid hawk! I hadn't planned on taking a tumble today. Speaking of, where was it? Not far — looking around, he found that he was in narrow valley between two huge rising walls of rock; behind him, the steep, pebble-lined path led back up to open cliffs and sunshine. Before him, the narrow trail continued down and down, into a narrow, weather-worn gap in the rock wall. The hawk was there, twitching and crying plaintively. One of its wings looked broken, and a leg too — it was moving at a painful limp. It must've hurt itself when it had crashed into Dawn.

He found a measure of pride in that: I must be like a rock wall! Like Thunder — other creatures tended to fall into broken heaps when the hulking black stallion challenged them. Dawn crept towards the injured bird, and it shrieked in alarm as Dawn's shadow engulfed it. But there was no running. Not anymore.

"And it's just as well," he growled. "You've caused me enough trouble today. Now come — Storm needs something to settle her stomach, and you're just the thing to do it."

The hawk did not agree — it continued to scream in pain and fright as Dawn drew closer. As it dragged its broken body through the gap in the rock wall, he experienced a flash of pity for the doomed creature. He almost wished he'd killed it in the initial impact: seeing its broken wing and hearing its desperate cries made what he was about to do feel...wrong.

Oh, enough, featherbrain! He's food — stop dithering and do it already.

His hesitation cost him — the bird gave a great, pained leap further into the shadows, and Dawn trotted to catch up. He'd expected for the space beyond to be some kind of cave, but there was light past the rocky archway. And a long but narrow space, one open to the sky and surrounded by four rocky walls pocked with the entrances of small tunnels. Dawn lifted his head, gazing about in awe: this must've been the hub of the rock formation, that deep well he'd seen from up above.

Yet something about the place gave him pause. Something in the air, a peculiar smell. Smoke? Very faint, but it made his nostrils flare — he hated fire. All pegasi did. But he could see no fire, or anything else that might've caused the acrid scent. Is it coming from that tree? The one the hawk was limping towards — it rose in the far corner of the open cave, a black, twisted, mutated thing growing up from the ground like a thick, stiff snake. Its branches were brittle and bare, and its base was littered with blackened, fallen leaves.

Lightning maybe? Dawn nodded. Yes, that was it — this place was open to the sky. During a storm, lightning must've struck down and set the thing ablaze.

The hawk reached the tree and collapsed. Poor thing. It must've seen it and, with a deep, manic surge of instinct, gone towards it seeking shelter. But with its broken body, there was no way it could get up the branches. "Sorry," Dawn said as he lifted his wings and moved closer, "but you're mine, my friend."

"Not if you keep dithering around like that."

He jumped and turned. Hawk! He expected to see her on the ground, standing in the archway behind him, but she wasn't — he finally thought to look up and saw her high above, alighted on a high shelf, her lithe body glowing in the strong sunlight. Behind her, Earth came down and landed clumsily on a higher perch. Under Star circled, looking for another place to land.

"What exactly are you doing?" Hawk asked, sound half-amused, half-annoyed. "Waiting for it to expire?"

Remembering her trying to call him back, Dawn lowered his head, ashamed. "H-Hawk, I'm sorry, I—"

"Go on, then!" she huffed. "You brought us all the way out here — Thunder and Midnight aren't going to be pleased if we come back empty-hoofed."

Dawn turned back around to the hawk. It was still in a crumpled heap at the base of the tree, body pulsating as it panted. Dawn moved closer and its eye swiveled in terror. Another bolt of guilt went through him.

You heard her. Stop dithering and put it out of its misery! He took a breath and somehow got himself up to do it — rearing, he whinnied as he brought his hooves down on his prey. There was a dull crunch, and the hawk went still. He released his breath, bent down and picked up his prize by the wing with his teeth.

There, see? Easy.

"Good work." He turned to see Hawk flutter down to a lower, narrower shelf, landing with the dexterity and confidence of a mountain goat. "I caught one too, and Earth and Under Star worked together to catch another. Someone is going to eat well tonight, if not Storm."

Dawn put down the hawk, suddenly worried. "You don't think she'll like it?" he asked.

"Of course she will," Hawk reassured him. "The thought if not the flesh. And if not her, well, Rain hasn't had anything tasty to eat in a while. I'm sure she'd appreciate a good snack."

Dawn nickered disdainfully. "I doubt that! She'll probably complain about how many feathers there are in each mouthful!" He froze as Hawk gave him a stern look. "I-I mean..." He shook his head. "Sorry. Am I going to have to catch a hawk for her now, too?"

Hawk snorted, amused. "Let's get these back," she said. "We're all tired, and I'm sure after your adventures in hunting hawks, you could use a rest." She peered around. "I don't think you can take off from down there — not enough room. Try going back the way you came and—"

A shocked cry suddenly came from high above — Under Star, bleating in sudden, stark terror. "Hawk!" he said, looking down with huge eyes. "Dawn!"

Dawn froze, struck still by his friend's sudden alarm. Or was that the scent of smoke? Because it was stronger than it had been before, hot and toxic as it touched his tongue. Smoke, fire. He turned, looking for it, but did not see it. There was no heat to be found here, just that dreaded smell.

Hawk spoke then, her voice calm but in the wrong way — calm like something was wrong, something was terribly, horrifyingly wrong: "Dawn, stay still. Stop moving."

He obeyed, his legs shaking, and he wanted to shout, Why? What's happening? What do you see?

But there was no need, because a moment later, he saw it too.

Before him, there were shadows at the base of the rock wall, shadows pushing into a tunnel near the valley floor. Peering out from them was a pair of reptilian eyes, yellow as a burning sunset but a thousand times more sinister. Slowly, they emerged from the gloom, packed into a spiraling mass of black scales that pushed up into sharp horns and out into a narrow snout. Then came the neck, long and muscular, and massive, clawed feet, and then the wings: they swept out of the gloom like giant shadows, not feathered but grossly webbed, each one longer than Dawn's entire body.

Dawn stared at the creature as its mouth parted and its tongue flickered out, and the stench of smoke grew worse. A paralyzing, fascinated horror numbed him from horn to hooves, pushing all thought out of his mind, save one: Not lightning. No, that blackened, sorry tree behind him hadn't suffered from a stray bolt of sky fire.

No, that tree had been singed by this creature. Wyvern.