Dragoncrest Cliffs Where we break when our hearts are strong enough

The morning after the great storm, Ephraim sat at the highest point of the territory, staring out at the tempestuous sea with his tail flicking nervously behind him. The clouds were still dark and heavy, though the worst of the gale had passed. The cliffs were slick and dotted with new puddles; it had proven a precarious climb even for the surefooted Skayona. His hackles were still ruffled with energy from the evening before and anyone who knew him would notice he was jumpier than usual, as if poised on the edge of falling into a panic attack.

But he was as composed as he possibly could be, given the circumstances, and his eyes were darting across the sky and choppy horizon purposefully. The wind was bearing south-west now at a swift clip, carrying the storm away along the coast. It rifled through his fur and bit at the healing laceration on his nape, reminding him that there were other storms sure to come in the form of fangs and fur. If not the sky's snarling clangor, then the clash of teeth. Drageda would come out as they always did, Ephraim felt certain of that, but his nerves were frayed with worry. Nightmares still plagued him and his eyes were sunken with lost sleep. He found they were less now, maybe every other night instead of every night; in time they would be gone, he hoped.

And Drageda would still be standing, as it always had.