Cenrid and his flock had heard that the Black Tide was to the Hidden World. His injuries took so long to recover from, so as soon as he was up he wanted to help out as well as see his daughter. What the family didn't expect was to see a stack of smoke stretch over the water from the entrance of their underground home. Cenrid, Torill, Freidar, and a selected squad flew out before the sun had broken the icy fog of the morning towards the patch of tiny islands. The air was so thick the winter sky couldn't be seen through. Ash fluttered through the air and the ocean roared darkly beneath, and the island of night furies smeared black against the drear morning. The group landed on brittle wood and broken limbs. Snow dusted the corpses of trees and dragons alike and printed coldly in the mud were a flurry of footprints, indistinguishable to decipher. The light furies branched out looking for survivors. Freidar gave a prayer before taking off, being tasked by Cenrid to mercifully slay any dragons who weren't going to live to make a trip back to the Hidden World.
Torill, who was returning from her search, suddenly locked her eyes on a figure in the distance, it's breath swirling around into the open air. The White Shore group immediately took a defensive stance as the pale figure began to scurry towards them.