Sleeping Dragon i'm wishing they'd stop tryna turn me off

She was sick to death of her den, and the accompanying loneliness. Others would visit, providing what scarce meat they could afford, but the Corvidae was entirely useless to them all. Her injuries were a liability with the shortage of prey, and she had been unable to contribute in any meaningful way in the weeks following the bear attack. Magpie had been a storm of negative emotions before the locusts had made short work of the Wilds, and her internal situation had only worsened from there. She was entirely cut from all the things that made her life worth living, and her mind continued to darken into a deep depression. Magpie had no advice to give, and even if she had, she had no desire to give it. She figured it would fall onto deaf ears, anyway.

It wasn't that she couldn't move— her ribs and flank still ached, but they had begun to heal— but that she had little motivation to do so. She wouldn't have been able to hunt if prey were still abundant, let alone travel a long distance in the hopes that a search in this famine would prove fruitful. The lack of red meat made her recovery even slower, and the health of the pack was far more important than her own.

Her days were spent mostly sleeping, and wishing she were asleep when she was awake. Magpie's eyes were closed now, her head resting on her forepaws just outside the small crevice's entrance.