The-Fading-Realms

Racrar was burning. The storm had been sudden and terrible. The lightning was relentless, the fires, the devastation. Though the creatures living there fled in every direction, there seemed to be nowhere that was untouched by the apocalyptic atmosphere. It was nearly a year past the initial horror. A flyena was scraping out an existence, hoping against hope each day anew that salvation and a return to, perhaps not normalcy, but at least to a better life than the current prolonged trauma, would be at hand just on the next horizon. Somewhere, there must be a pocket that was less damaged. Somewhere, food easier to find, air easier to breathe. Somewhere the slyrks survived to bring down prey and let their smaller neighbors, with whom they had a tentatively friendly symbiosis, scavenge the leftovers. Somewhere, a place to raise her lone cub that would offer the promise of a quiet, happy life. These were the stories she spun to Silver every night as they cuddled together to sleep.