You hit the ground running, able to dart past and keep ahead of your projectile hail as they course-corrected. You barely notice Tempest falling in next to you again, failing to notice her brief expression of abject shock pointed your way. On Twilight’s end, she gaped at the incoming death storm with horror before pouring enough power into her horn to generate a small, electrified whirlwind around her, the mare audibly straining with the effort.