Bitterroot clawed at the air, but the magical grip on her tail was tight and refused to budge. She was slammed to the ground. When she got up, she was in a world of flickering orange and twisting black, fire throwing into dancing silhouette the bushes of the scrubland, seen through a thick miasma. The background noise was the steady rumbling and snapping of a large blaze. Heat and an orange glow washed over her from one side; she wasn’t far from the inside of the ring. She couldn’t see any ponies at the moment, but they were out there. They had to be.