Smoke filled her lungs as she sobbed, people screaming all around.
Her head was ringing. Her clothes were torn, and her eyes were misty. Something warm ran down from her ears, dripping from her chin. It smelled like copper.
People are lying down on the ground all around her, more falling as they breathed in those black, dust-like particles, suffocating. Her small size was the only thing that saved her. Saved her from the claws and the teeth of the monsters that surrounded her hýski.
The creatures that tore through, ate, and maimed her family.
The beast that killed her Faðir.
There was a sharp tug to the back of her robes, and she was lifted up, and the one carrying her sprinted away, unseen.
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She remembers others, another girl, and four boys. There was a blonde woman, she thinks, and a black haired man.
She remembers bits and pieces of them, and remembers calling them Heart and Brain in her small understanding of the language they spoke. Her language had always been different to those around her, with only the other kids having a slight understanding of what she said. She remembers that it was compared to different dialects, and that those like her - storm dragons slayers - had morphed the Draconic language into their own form of it.
She remembers a vague light, a tugging in the pit of her stomach, and nothing else. She had woken up alone in a clearing, no one around, and her ears bleeding from the loud.
She remembers that the storms she caused had ripped trees from the ground, and she couldn't make them stop as they tore across the continent. She remembers that people she passed by spoke about them being the worst storms Fiore had experienced in centuries. She remembers the cold feeling of loneliness, and the desperate hope of a child that she would never feel it again.
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Orange eyes blazed with a bright light from the darkness of her hiding spot, crouched down and away from the four elder children trying to coax her out. Her small hands, cheeks, and legs were coated in patches of soft silver scales. Little talons dig into the leather of her bag, a gift from Heart,
There were four older teenagers outside her small hideout in a large thorn bush, the small thorns leaving tiny scratches on her skin, speaking in gentle tones to coax her out. She hardly understood a word they said, and her throat was too scratched to even hope to mimic. She couldn't hear them, their voices were fuzzy...
Oh, had something happened to her ears? Faðir always said that her ears were very sensitive, even for a dragon slayer.
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She remembers that she followed them. She knows that they led her to where she wanted to go.
She was following a familiar scent, all the way to a new place.
They dropped her off there, like she asked.
She met her best friends.
