Bran thought to himself. His foot dug into the snow, and a storm erupted from his foot. The world flew at a speed that could only be witnessed by a dragon. A heartthrob came to his throat. He clenched his teeth and set another foot into the snow. Bran felt an unquencheable anger. He exhaled, and stepped another fifteen meters or so. Nayru was dead. The missive had taken time to reach him, and with the refugees drowning his shores, he was at a loss. So he had decided to train instead, clear his mind and ponder his choices. He whispered a prayer to the gods and stomped his foot. A cloud of snow and sleet shot up. Rage took hold of him. Thunder roared around him.
Bran stopped thinking, the world around him had turned blurred. A failed oïl painting of whites, grays and blacks. Lightning coursed through his veins. He ran off a cliff, launching into the air. Up, up, up… Into the skies, where no one could hear him scream. Amidst the storm, the druid's wrath consumed him.
The storm raged on, the wailing of storm clouds echoed the faint cries of a lost man deep within. Those that would visit the central lake the next day, could find trees split in half, as if struck by lightning. Rocky landslides and large trenches clawed into the ground, as if some ungodly creature had thrust the wrath of Nör onto the earth.
Back in Annwynn, a silent Bran returned, and slumped his back to the Lia Finn- emptied of all anger, only filled with a seething hatred and cold, uncomfortable temper. It would fade, soon, but it was best not to speak to the druid whilst he was still in such a mood. Nonetheless, as fast as possible, a missive found its way to one Ciyera Lyren… by way of ship. It spoke little, if not anything at all, but for coordinates and a signature.