The few memories Scylla had only ever came in short bursts, like a dream she had had the night before. The most recent one had her lying on the ground attempting to catch the breath that had escaped her lungs. The dream couldn't possibly be true, but her instincts were screaming otherwise.
It was dark that night. She was very young, maybe four years of age and sleeping in her parents' house. The raids were beginning to come faster and harder on their village and the horrors that came with them were relentless in their torture. Her father had been on watch that night when the world crashed down around them. The short memory bursts were of screams, blood and fear.
Scylla shook her head hard, snorting and stood having won the battle with her lungs again. Her head spinning slightly, she looked around to make sure of where she was. She never spoke out loud to herself but her head was swarming with questions that not even the quiet silence could answer. She realized again how alone she was.
This seemed to be a daily activity for her now. It kept her occupied most of the day, thankfully, giving her something to do. Scylla headed west at a fast jog through the woods. It would be raining soon and she wanted to be on the edge near the sand before getting soaked. She made it, mostly dry, and stretched out on the warmed ground. She dug her four inch claws deep in the sand making holes and filling them back in again. She had been in those woods for a long time. Scylla was small when she first arrived, but now stood taller than some small trees.
She knew she was close to where she had originally lived; she could hear the screaming most every night. But the desert was wide, and to cross it would mean capture and death. So she survived here alone. She had never met another and was unaware anything was out there looking.