Six-year-old Guinevere awoke in her cooled tree hollow, instinctively raising her antennae to allow her empathic sense to scour the forest. All of the prey seemed in their usual places, and everything seemed in harmony. The pale blue-and-pink-furred fairy dragoness rose to her white-tipped paws, then made her way to the mouth of the hollow, peering out and smiling from the warmth of Summer’s sun. Her yellow eyes focused on the garden beneath her tree; she had grown various berries and herbs for peaceful days like this when there was no dying prey to scavenge.

She spread her four insectoid wings, which then flitted in a glowing pink blur behind her as she descended. Guinevere landed lightly on the ground in front of her favorite red berries and plucked them from the bush with her small fangs. She was acutely aware of the bugs hidden on the leaves, scattering away from her point of contact with it–but she could tell that the plant was thriving from them, so she did her best not to disturb them any farther after eating her fill.

The fairy type glanced over the rest of her garden. She had been selective about which plants were in it, knowing that their access to water was dependent on rain. Despite their survival requiring minimum hydration, the dry heat during later parts of recent days was taking its toll on them–and everyone.

Guinevere counted herself lucky that the trees of her forest territory provided not only shelter from the sight of flighted predators, but also from the sun’s wrath during seasons it was especially hot. This was truly the ideal place for her, and it had been since she was a yearling.

The fairy type immediately stopped her wing’s glowing and flattened them on her back, ducking into the long grass when a shadow passed overhead. Despite her instincts to raise them, she purposely kept her ears lowered, listening to shrill, breathy cries of a wind dragon.

She heard another one answer with a more husky sound as a second, larger shadow joined the first. Guinevere waited with baited breath until they both flew off, and remained still for moments afterward, tracking their locations as best she could with her antennae just to be sure they were gone.

There had been a few close encounters in the past with wind types who often rested on the treetops and neighboring hills, but most of them were simply passing through; they had favorite spots to return to, but they never settled in one place for long, so Guinevere didn't let herself worry too much about them lingering in her territory. The small adult dragoness’s only fears stemmed from being seen as potential prey by the large wyverns.

After making certain that they weren't coming back any time soon, Guinevere decided to busy herself the rest of the day by venturing deeper into the forest in search of edible plants that were more tolerant of the weather. She had never needed to in the past, but the temperatures have annually become more extreme than the last, if only in small degrees. The fairy type sensed the life force of each one in the vicinity, taking note of which were thriving in hotter locations of the forest.

Upon finding one suiting her tastes, Guinevere carefully unearthed it with experienced paws, then carried between her tiny teeth on her flight back to her garden, where she skillfully replanted it.

The next few days played out similarly, but she monitored its life force, happy to know she hadn't harmed it. She moved to nibble on its leaf when her stomach cramped from hunger despite how much she had filled it with vegetation. I may not be able to last much longer without meat, the dragoness realized. Her antennae lifted to once again detect any dying prey she could scavenge, but the forest was as full of life as ever; the only lives lost were ones immediately eaten by their hunters. She sighed. Maybe tomorrow.

Guinevere awakened the next day, going through her morning routine, albeit a bit more desperately as that pang of hunger had grown harder to ignore. It wasn't starvation itself; it was a lack of specific proteins her body needed to survive. She let her senses search the forest, and was relieved to discover a half-eaten carcass nearby. The fairy type hastily rushed to it, determined to reach the kill before another scavenger could. And she made it, eating as fast as she could without upsetting her stomach, leaving nothing but its bones.

Her hunger finally satisfied, Guinevere relaxed for a moment, then retook her usual cautious stance by sensing for potential danger on her journey back to the tree hollow. She hesitated when she noticed many more leftover kills surrounding her, and frowned when she realized they littered the entirety of the forest. The population of life had decreased exponentially.

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The fairy type inspected the other kills to find they were all half-eaten as well, with identical bite marks, and felt appalled; through her peripherals, she saw the light of her own wings change to a reddish purple hue to reflect her rare anger and confusion. Who could waste prey like this? Nobody new had hunted here yesterday; it must have been while I was sleeping last night.

Guinevere gathered as many of the leftovers as she could carry in her front paws and brought them inside her tree. Fairy types could eat kills at any stage of decay; their deaths would no longer be wasteful as she stored them under a large leaf she kept along the hollow’s inner wall for later.

She kept her guard up the rest of the day, fearing the return of whatever foul beast had needlessly hunted and wasted so many different prey animals. The dragoness had even forced herself to stay awake throughout the night in case they did in fact strike during those hours.

As dawn arrived, so too did the presence of an unfamiliar dragon. Guinevere’s first assumption was that he was the culprit, but she could sense that his life force was currently on the lower end; honing her antennae his way revealed to her that he was exhausted, and soon he had stopped moving. The fairy type focused more intently on him, relieved to feel the steady rhythm of his heart and discover he wasn't injured or ill, only asleep.

Still, she couldn't take the chance that he was the one behind the overkills, and left the safety of her tree to confront him directly.

Guinevere reached the stranger, approaching with caution. To her surprise, the sleeping dragon was tall and bipedal, with stingers tipping his wings and tail. A poison type? What reason would one have to leave the desert?

He was completely unconscious; she could see his snake-like fangs folded inward through his partially-gaped mouth, and they confirmed he was innocent; the bites from the wasted prey were not a match to him. Still, her yellow eyes studied him curiously, trying piece together his story through the healed scars between his black scales. If he did in fact travel from the desert, it's no wonder why he would choose the forest to rest in. But why travel? Was he chased from his home by whomever scarred him? She inspected the scars more closely. No… these scars were each caused by differently-sized dragons, and some seem more recent than others. Given his size, she'd guess he was only a couple of years older than her.

Guinevere didn't have time to ponder more as the sudden loss of another life interrupted her thoughts, causing her to flinch. She redirected her antennae and detected a new dragon nearby from the same location. Since they were so close, yet silent, they must be either a shadow dragon–which was unlikely at this early hour–or a wind type capable of stifling noise.

Then the shrill communicative cry of a different wyvern passing by overhead startled both Guinevere and the poison dragon. The latter immediately stirred, and despite his movements being sluggish from his lack of proper sleep, his blue- and red-violet eyes were alert and searching the skies for the source of the sound.

Then he noticed Guinevere and recoiled from her unexpected proximity. A few quickened heartbeats during which time the dragoness did not target him allowed the poison type to relax enough to ask, “Is this your territory?”

She nodded, but her mind was elsewhere; the second intruder was on the move, and she could tell from its sheer speed that it was in fact a wind dragon.

“Sorry for trespassing… I don't intend to hunt here. I just need sleep,” he continued. When her discomfort seemed to be obvious, he quickly added, “I'll leave if you want.”

Guinevere blinked, confused by the contrition in his voice, then remembered that other types were blissfully unaware of things out of their sight and hearing range. “I have no issue with you resting here,” she assured him, then winced as she felt another life taken; the previous one–a doe–had not been fully consumed, just like all the others.

“Thanks…! But then, what's the matter? I haven't met many fairy types, but I've seen enough of them to know that ‘red wings’ are ‘angry wings,’” he chuckled, as if trying to ease the tension.

“Yes, I am angry… but not because of you. Someone else is here, and they are killing everything,” she explained.

“What?!” His white-tipped maroon wings spread in preparation to pursue the wasteful beast, and his brow ridges furrowed with determination. “Where are they?”

“They're heading to the western sector of the forest. Excuse me, but I must put a stop to this.” Guinevere pinpointed the culprit and flew off.

To her shock, he was right behind her; his flight was uneven at first, and she was once again attuned to how tired he was. But he powered through it, keeping up steadily, and even showing restraint not to pass the slower dragon guiding him. Meanwhile his focus was straight ahead, his eyes searching for any sign of their target.

She wasn't ungrateful for his help; rather, just confused by it. “Who exactly are you?”

“Huh?” Her voice had broken his concentration and he met her gaze curiously. “Oh! My name's Gale. What's yours?”

“I'm Guinevere…”

“Nice to meet you. I appreciate you letting me rest here, but I don't think I can sleep knowing someone's terrorizing this place.”

“I see…”

Gale seemed the slightest bit frustrated by her pace. “Can you tell me exactly where they are?”

“About half a mile ahead; but they're fast,” Guinevere warned him.

“All the more reason to hurry. I'll see if I can catch up.” With that, his tall frame passed her, maneuvering the trees by way of strategically-timed wingbeats.

She could tell from that alone that he was no stranger to navigating forested terrains. Perhaps he travels for fun.