Fear the bird that has nothing to lose

Winter, 90 million and 98,000 years into the future

Most of the northern part of the Follia Plateau has already collapsed. On this frigid winter day, there’s hardly a sign of life: only a few rare rodents hide in their burrows and a handful of birds roosts in the now-sprawling shrubs that cover the plateau. Beneath the shrubs, where there was once a rich grassy substrate, now lies a dense mat of moss, lichens, and a few resilient graminoid species—the only plants able to withstand the shallow permafrost, the shade of the shrubs, and the increasingly frequent freezing rains.  

The silence of this cold, desolate day is finally broken by a distant call. Who could it be? What creature dares disturb this bleak, quiet landscape? 
A figure appears on the horizon. It’s large, not enormous, but certainly not a rodent nor a small bird. Wait, two-legged… it must be a bird. 
The creature moves slowly, steadily forward, until at last, its true form is revealed. 

Snow brumble. It’s a snow brumble. 

They’ve made it. Or rather,  she has made it. 
The female seems to be calling out for someone, but there’s no response. You can see the anxiety in her eyes. Is she looking for her mate? Her family? And above all: will they ever answer? 
The scene drags on for a few more minutes, with the young female snow brumble’s calls echoing through the barren wasteland she calls home. But again, silence. No one seems willing-or able-to reply.  

Just when it all seems over, another call comes from the distance. This one is different...harsher. From the opposite horizon, three figures emerge: an adult snow brumble and two young ones. It’s a male, and he’s with his offspring. Their offspring. 
The female had just separated from her family to fend off a hungry borax by pretending to be injured. Once she was sure that the ravenous marsupial had moved far enough away from her young, with a burst of speed she disappeared into the tangled underbrush that has now overtaken the Follia Plateau, leaving the borax with nothing.  

Unlike tramplerats and trenchcrawlers, snow brumbles have always retained their anti-predatory instincts, knowing how to handle danger depending on its source. A snow brumble had surely never encountered a borax before, but what is a borax if not just an overgrown running carniere? In just a few generations, an improved defensive behavior against borax had already spread throughout the entire snow brumble population, at least for the continental groups. Where there were once less than 10,000 individuals on the edge of extinction, snow brumbles have now reclaimed parts of their original range, growing over the course of thousands years to exceed a population of 100,000.  

They are survivors. Against all odds, they made it.  But they are not alone.  

As the family finally reunites, a small herd of stottmice approaches the large birds, their curiosity piqued, accompanied by a few hoofpoles who are browsing on the now abundant shrub cover of the Follia Plateau. These creatures, despite their small size and vulnerability, also managed to survive the invaders, their numbers reduced, but always above zero. And that’s what counts.  

From behind one of the scattered trees on the plateau, the head of another small creature appears: a ramo, munching on the leaves of a doorpea plant. This individual shows a few bite marks on its leg, likely from a brief scuffle with a furago last autumn. The furago isn’t dead, though. It’s peacefully continuing its hibernation right beneath the ground where the stottmice are now walking. 

They don’t know it yet, but they are the heirs. Heirs to a new, whole continent ready to flourish again after millions and millions of years spent beneath a massive sheet of ice.