how lucky am I, that I'm living through the end of times?
Raure
Staying in the den was out of the question. At some point, he'd gotten sick, and he couldn't even force himself into the confines of the den that he shared with Pslam. Balthier and Azzurra were gone, and he didn't know where. Just like their father. Vanished in the dead of night, with some supplies. Leaving an empty room behind for the last two of the family to find and mourn. Beyond the thicket, these cliffs dropped off onto an icy sea. The roiling waters reflected the light of the ever full moon, and made it easier for the young Destruction to get some rest. He was still unable to get more than an hour or two of rest at a time, and his sleep was often fitful, plagued by terrible nightmares. His waking moments weren't much better, and his patrols were painfully slow as he found himself inspecting every nook and cranny for danger along the borders.
It wouldn't be surprising if the Sequoia kicked him out, he'd been lagging behind in his duties and hardly fit to engage in anything resembling diplomacy. Would Psalm abandon him too? Everyone else seemed keen to get as far away from him as they could, so it seemed reasonable that she would run off next. Leave him in an empty, too large den. Haunted by the spectres conjured by his waking mind and the notions of what could have been. Curling up loosely near the edge of the cliff, the burly yearling laid his head on his outstretched forelimb and stared out at the waves that rushed towards the cliffs. The tears that flowed down his cheeks did so in bright rivulets of magenta, staining the pallid fur of his face and betraying his moment of weakness.
