Sleeping Dragon Like it's 1975

There was still a flame burning brightly in Wildfire's core. It didn't help that she couldn't eat or sleep much, so prevalent was her furious restlessness. She made an effort to curl up with Thuringwethil tonight and forget the world but to no avail. Apologetically, she withdrew and left their den to stalk through the gathering gloom. She caught herself growling under her breath, white wisps trailing from her nostrils and in between her teeth as the temperature dropped to frigid levels. The cold did nothing to temper the inner heat and tension that had her wound like a piano wire about to snap.

Bristling and muttering, the Bandrona found herself standing near the edge of the geyser fields. Everything was quiet, dark and still. Wildfire drew in a long breath, captured it in her lungs and then watched as it streamed back out of her in a silvery cloud. Her warm amber eyes grew unfocused then as she found herself thinking of Freyja in particular. How was she doing in the aftermath? Her trauma hadn't been quite the same as Wildfire's, yet the yearling felt her heart going out to the child all the same, with an empathy only a survivor could understand.

She abandoned her post by the thermal springs and began prowling toward the rendezvous site. It was probably too late to call on the Feisripa—hopefully, she was fast asleep—but Wildfire would check anyway.