Neverwinter Forest there was a thousand storms in his eyes

NOTE: In Cypress’ personal timeline, this takes place directly after this thread.

Tagging for reference!

Cypress would never remember how he’d made it back to Neverwinter Forest.

The emotional turmoil he’d experienced within the last few hours was literally crushing — gangly legs crumpled as he crossed through the familiar evergreen boughs, and heedless of the canopy of stars and the brilliant moon, Cypress gasped raggedly and shattered the slumbering silence with a cry of raw desperation:

“@Allure! @Shrike! @Kjalarr!”

Early this morning, like every other morning, Cypress had awoken with the belief that his parents, littermate, and best friend were dead — but he knew now. Rannoch was alive — he just didn’t want to stick around. Someday, perhaps, Cypress would come to understand his brother’s reasoning; after all, he didn’t want to live in his parents’ sepulcher anymore than Rannoch did. Right now, though, the orphaned raven was overwhelmed and overwrought — and the indignation at being left behind again engulfed any compassion or empathy he was capable of. Between engaging in earnest physical combat, learning that his brother was miraculously alive, and relinquishing his grip on his emotions for the first time since his parents’ death — only to have everything ripped away from him again — Cypress was very near the edge of true madness.

Blood pooled in his mouth from the wound that bisected the leftmost corner of his muzzle like a half-etched jagged Glasgow grin; he spat it away, feeling sick, but tongued at the torn flesh reflexively as he lay panting. Aside from that wound and a few small cuts that littered his gums and the bridge of his muzzle, he was basically unharmed. Tears dampened his velveteen cheeks, but Cypress had cried himself out long ago — his eyes were dry. The sudden feeling that the world was closing in on him, some growing sense of claustrophobia, shoved the boy to his feet as he charged through the forest proper looking for one of the wolves who still had the power to bind his whirring wings and keep him safe. He knew immediately that it was Kjalarr he wanted — he didn’t know what to do about Rannoch. Loyalty toward his littermate and toward their worried sister warred within his breast: should he tell Allure the truth, or lie on the deserter’s behalf? It would be unfair to involve Shrike, but Kjalarr, like Cypress, was a brother and not a friend. For reasons the boy couldn’t fully define, he knew the berserker was the safest choice to go to for this particular piece of advice.

“Kjalarr!” he shouted, his voice breaking. “Please!”