[center][color=gray][h1]Ramera Whiting[/h1][/color][/center]

	Ramera stood atop the wall, resting her wings after having made the flight out to confirm the members of the caravan. Her role as Paradise's eyes has certainly lost its value with the soldiers on constant watch, but there were many things she could do that out-paced them in the line of reconnaissance. She stretched her left wing out, hearing the click of metal against metal as the wind raked through her metallic feathers as she stared out into the red waste. So much had changed in Paradise, but this view never changed. The orange, scorched, cracked ground never changed. But, she had felt the burden of change, albeit less so than many of the people in the walls of Paradise. People had lost their ability to trust after the 3 day war, and who could rightfully blame them?

	The dead had at least thinned out over the years. At one time the landscape was dotted with them, but these days the only threat on people's minds were other people invading Paradise. The "judging town" stood as a monument to what happens when you trust outsiders. Somebody was bound to snap with the traders entering and exiting our walls, even if they held strong ties with the Mother of Paradise. This city had once held an air of safety, but now whenever she frequented the city's streets it always felt like there was a thick air of suspicion. None of it was directed at her at least, being one of the more recognizable people held its own perks she guessed. Although, she had had a few comments about her looking like a half-dead, but she'd assumed they were mostly light-hearted.

	She changed wings, feeling the wind pull on her feathers, ruffling them as the breeze arched over the wall. The wing felt alien, even after having dealt with it for the past four or so years, having a wing that didn't consist of metal still felt strange. A time ago she'd wished for something of the like for its beauty, but now it felt more like a weakness she had to constantly compensate for. Metal wings were far more conventional in a world where nothing cared for the notion of beauty. However, a mutation was better than what had occurred to Clo, and Anora... Clo was now in some far off place. Her brow twitched as she tried to shove the thought of her sisters out of her mind before taking to the skies again, deciding to check the caravan's path to make sure nothing had been attracted to the sight of their dust cloud.