Story
... Surrounded by vicious foes, Inkifoal stood unfazed. With head raised, it unleashed "Ink Dyes the Raging Streams," its horn thrusting forth as a blade, ink swirling from mane and tail, saturating the very air in a dense shroud. Taking advantage of the enemies' surprise, it followed up with "Parched Brush Startles the Birds," its voracious strokes seeking to drain the ink from the brush itself, forehooves striking with lethal precision, traces of ink sealing pressure points. On sunlit afternoons, the gentle breeze often lulls Inkifoal into daydreams, of galloping across the skies, dreaming itself a Ranger, striding across the Planes. Do not disturb such tender reveries, for these are the privilege of youth, a gift from the Nexus itself.
