The bird's wings are more tireless than a gaat'si's. Xván'tay's flown further than she can ever remember flying before- at least enough to cover the length of the Txsit'si twice over. And she hasn't found anything, except more snow and cold.
It's been a miserable fucking week. Few weeks. Month? She never thought she'd miss the plague flats.
And then, banking sharp around the windy bend of a mountain, spots fire.
She nearly knocks herself out of the sky stopping- eagles aren't built to hang in place like gaat'si can. The flame is golden- alive, leaving a ring of damp grass visible even from her great height, the color of Yatixil's magic when they offered it, back before they'd determined she was old enough to strike her own flint and steel. Of course she follows it- sweeping down from the sky like the arc of a comet.
They won't be there. They won't, they won't- she chants it to herself like a mantra while wind whistles past her feathers in a wild howling gale. She's not a child, but she can't help but shut her eyes, for a moment. Can't help but imagine.
She's falling too fast. When she looks again, the ground is rushing up to meet her- and she flares her wings and comes to an inelegant stop, spraying ice and dead grass and wet mud. Better than some of the things she's had on her feathers.
She's not...disappointed to see no Yatixil, because she wasn't expecting them. Not really. But it stings anyway, enough that being yelled at by another wolf draws a fluting shriek of irritation and defiant shift of heavy wings. "Take a fucking guess."
It's been a miserable fucking week. Few weeks. Month? She never thought she'd miss the plague flats.
And then, banking sharp around the windy bend of a mountain, spots fire.
She nearly knocks herself out of the sky stopping- eagles aren't built to hang in place like gaat'si can. The flame is golden- alive, leaving a ring of damp grass visible even from her great height, the color of Yatixil's magic when they offered it, back before they'd determined she was old enough to strike her own flint and steel. Of course she follows it- sweeping down from the sky like the arc of a comet.
They won't be there. They won't, they won't- she chants it to herself like a mantra while wind whistles past her feathers in a wild howling gale. She's not a child, but she can't help but shut her eyes, for a moment. Can't help but imagine.
She's falling too fast. When she looks again, the ground is rushing up to meet her- and she flares her wings and comes to an inelegant stop, spraying ice and dead grass and wet mud. Better than some of the things she's had on her feathers.
She's not...disappointed to see no Yatixil, because she wasn't expecting them. Not really. But it stings anyway, enough that being yelled at by another wolf draws a fluting shriek of irritation and defiant shift of heavy wings. "Take a fucking guess."
common | txsit'si
