She wandered alone, but without fear.
Twenty-two cycles of acid rain, dense fog, and dust storms had passed beneath the forsaken Sun of her world. A life of constant struggle now diminished those who had accompanied her in this life after the cursed, black pillars had fallen from the sky. The pillars stood looming and ominous against the perilous skies throughout the once lush and lively terrain that had been her people’s home for eons.
Everything was different now. Her entire world had changed in less than a cycle. Those who had survived the apocalyptic event now struggled together in the last known refuge. That place was called Iris, an oasis hidden within a deep crater left by a calamity long ago.
She had left Iris in search of answers to a problem she could not fathom. She didn’t know how she would find those answers, but she would remain the single source of hope for her people, even when they had repeatedly exclaimed that this was the end of their time here.
The urge to find something lost within her spirit haunted her sleep, and what little sleep she found in this ravaged land. She didn’t know what she had lost, but an emptiness had grown within her as her people yielded to their fate more and more each day. The choice to give up was not in her blood.
She covered her face with a loose end of a cloth that was wrapped around her neck to protect her from the sand that was carried by relentless windstorms. Several strands of long hair that were darker than a moonless night broke free from her hood, and she quickly tucked them away before they could whip and sting her eyes. Those eyes, violet and silvery starbursts, held a reflection of pain and loss that echoed the expansive wastelands sprawled out before her. The tan complexion of the exposed parts of her face and fingers was reddened from the biting winds. Her garments were stained and frayed by the harshness of the elements. Even still, she stood courageous against the odds, fighting back the tears that yearned to spring forth from the maelstrom of emotions churning in her heart.
The only relief from the dust storms was the rainstorms that came periodically. However, these rainstorms were just as harsh, with torrents of acid rain and bursts of lightning that struck with little warning. The building pressure in her ears let her know to seek shelter soon.
In the distance, she could see a line of mesas standing tall against the horizon; their tops shrouded by layers of mist. She knew it would be a great risk to take shelter there, as it was the only shelter from the storms that could be seen for miles, other than the foothills of the mountains from where she had recently departed. She wasted no more time considering what or whom may be sheltering there, and began moving toward them with graceful strides.
Before the world had changed, she loved to run through the valleys that surrounded the villages where she had spent most of her life. The valleys were dense with foliage then, and it took great dexterity to maneuver through them when trying to keep up with the wolves that hunted there. She would often scavenge their kills to take back to her family. Never had she taken the life of a living being, that was, until after the black pillars had fallen from the sky.
Even now, she only took life when it was necessary. She left the hunting to her companion, a wolf that she had raised from a pup when it became separated from its family during the cold cycles. Her companion was nowhere to be seen now. He rarely traveled with her, often scouting the lands around for food or danger. When he did return, she could always tell what he had found.
She approached the row of mesas, which had formed close together like a boundary wall. There were narrow canyons between that were wide enough for passage, but the walls touched in many places to form archways and tunnels. The mesas were considered to be sacred ground to the ancestors of her people. The stories tell that only the most respected elders would journey here to make pleas to the All Spirit when the lands were suffering. They called this place Dulav rae Amant, which means Place of Blessings. As the people gained more knowledge of the land, they found other ways to solve their problems. Over time, the stories were regarded with less importance. However, her grandparents had always recited them at significant periods in the Changing. She memorized them out of respect, so that their ancestors’ memories would remain alive. Her people had lost hope of overcoming this new calamity, so she took it upon herself to seek out the blessings the ancestors told of within the old stories.
She examined the ground for tracks made by anything living and found none. Walking along the outer edge, she waited for her intuition to guide her in choosing a path forward.