Nevertheless, the waif-like young hybrid was more than grateful for the small blessing which her home offered, as far as shelter and relief offered, and on more than two occasions she had found generous heat beneath the feathered wing of her leader. Roscorro, however, had become busier and less available through weeks past. The morning finally came, wielding a wild, biting wind and flurries of fresh powder snow. Eira, curled tightly beneath the jut of a low rocky overhang, with the outside wing—tattered and chewed—draped over the top of her bony, angular body, sighed soft resignation and smiled. Admittedly, she preferred this bitter weather to the inescapable swelter of scorch; the coat thick around her never shed, and stifling humidity only worsened the assault. It took a good length of time, an hour at least, to find strength enough to stretch and rise from her hardened earth bed. She shook herself briskly, perhaps out of habit more than necessity—the stiffness was always present, the hunger, the pain. Stepping out into the bright sunlight from the shade, Eira found her lashes dipping to shield her eager eyes. Perhaps I’ll head to the portal again, she mused silently, strolling down a rubble lined avenue, vaguely curious about the whereabouts of those who dwelled in Halyven too—though the long, arduous journey lacked appeal. Instead, the blue orphan settled on a very different idea, an easier one, and began to scout about the rocks for the flora the Rift had tasked her to find; the one that would cure the familiar rash growing on her belly. |
Anyone is welcome. Eira is looking for flora for her trial.
She has no horn yet despite the picture!