A sound like thunder rolls across the Taigan forest, makes the ground shudder and the trees quake. Thunder is common enough in the summer, but the day is bright and shining, the sun rising higher overhead in the small clearing where the residents of Taiga gather.
Where most of them meet.
Popinjay is not there. She has been flying all night, flying since sometime after midday yesterday when, she believes, she died and became an enormous bird. She has been coasting on thermals half in a panic, half delighted. Being a bird is better than being dead, but it was awfully unexpected, and she has never seen a bird as large as a dragon. Neither, it would seem, have the vultures that share the thermals, they veer away from her wary and wild, and the ravens simply follow her, cursing - at least, she thinks they are cursing. Becoming a bird has not given her the ability to speak with them, which she finds considerably disappointing. She wonders if the Fairies are laughing at her on their mountain top as she veers to one side, angling sharply away, and thrusts herself forward in the air with a sweep of her wings. The air breaks around them and sounds like thunder.
Travel in this way is simple, the distance is nothing for her, a blink, and it is not long before the young... raptor is circling above her redwood forest, but the trouble that has kept her aloft all night finds her here, too. She cannot outrun it, though she wheels and dives, her shadow massive as it flutters across the tree tops. If anything, coming home has made things so much worse.
She still doesn't know how to land.
And not only does she not know how, she does not know where to do it. Although gliding along on the thermals reserves massive amounts of energy, her shock and her inexperience use it up almost as quickly. Popinay is growing weary fast, her wings ache and her lungs burn until even her skeleton feels like it is on fire. Her muscles are beginning to betray her. The angry twitch of a muscle lifts feathers she hadn't meant to move and her trajectory changes abruptly, cartwheeling sharply upwards before slingshotting down again.
The great black and red bird falls, spinning and descending so fast that her wings are pinned to her sides. It is dizzying and dazzling and for a moment she forgets to fight against it, but through the clear eyelid that protects her eyes as she falls, she suddenly takes note of the horses below her. Few are strangers to her, though some are more well known to her than others. Poppy fans her tail and her rotation changes just enough that broad, red-striped, wings can unfurl, but it's too little, too late.
And then she crashes. The noise is horrendous, earth-shaking. She lands in the middle of the clearing, in the middle of their meeting, a tumult of feathers and sharp claws, tumbling and tearing at the earth. The raptor rolls violently, wings flapping uselessly as her momentum throws her from one end of the clearing to the other, scattering the horses. There is no hint of control in her rolling, and her thrashing is equally dangerous to tree and horse. A large larch tree breaks across her back, adding its remains to the body count.
When at last she stops, when at last the earth grows still and the clearing quiet, she is propped upside-down by two stubbornly-rooted redwoods, her claws in tights fists, each full of grass and rock and the left one grasping a sapling pulled up by its roots. The small meadow has grown significantly, its beauty marred by the wide swath of her destruction. Her breath is quick, shallow, panting, as she watches her fellow Taigans peer out again from the places they fled to - if they fled and she did not simply crush them. Popinjay laughs, but her voice is so different, a high, breathy trill, and she cannot make her beak form words.
It does not occur to her that they will not recognize her in this shape.
Where most of them meet.
Popinjay is not there. She has been flying all night, flying since sometime after midday yesterday when, she believes, she died and became an enormous bird. She has been coasting on thermals half in a panic, half delighted. Being a bird is better than being dead, but it was awfully unexpected, and she has never seen a bird as large as a dragon. Neither, it would seem, have the vultures that share the thermals, they veer away from her wary and wild, and the ravens simply follow her, cursing - at least, she thinks they are cursing. Becoming a bird has not given her the ability to speak with them, which she finds considerably disappointing. She wonders if the Fairies are laughing at her on their mountain top as she veers to one side, angling sharply away, and thrusts herself forward in the air with a sweep of her wings. The air breaks around them and sounds like thunder.
Travel in this way is simple, the distance is nothing for her, a blink, and it is not long before the young... raptor is circling above her redwood forest, but the trouble that has kept her aloft all night finds her here, too. She cannot outrun it, though she wheels and dives, her shadow massive as it flutters across the tree tops. If anything, coming home has made things so much worse.
She still doesn't know how to land.
And not only does she not know how, she does not know where to do it. Although gliding along on the thermals reserves massive amounts of energy, her shock and her inexperience use it up almost as quickly. Popinay is growing weary fast, her wings ache and her lungs burn until even her skeleton feels like it is on fire. Her muscles are beginning to betray her. The angry twitch of a muscle lifts feathers she hadn't meant to move and her trajectory changes abruptly, cartwheeling sharply upwards before slingshotting down again.
The great black and red bird falls, spinning and descending so fast that her wings are pinned to her sides. It is dizzying and dazzling and for a moment she forgets to fight against it, but through the clear eyelid that protects her eyes as she falls, she suddenly takes note of the horses below her. Few are strangers to her, though some are more well known to her than others. Poppy fans her tail and her rotation changes just enough that broad, red-striped, wings can unfurl, but it's too little, too late.
And then she crashes. The noise is horrendous, earth-shaking. She lands in the middle of the clearing, in the middle of their meeting, a tumult of feathers and sharp claws, tumbling and tearing at the earth. The raptor rolls violently, wings flapping uselessly as her momentum throws her from one end of the clearing to the other, scattering the horses. There is no hint of control in her rolling, and her thrashing is equally dangerous to tree and horse. A large larch tree breaks across her back, adding its remains to the body count.
When at last she stops, when at last the earth grows still and the clearing quiet, she is propped upside-down by two stubbornly-rooted redwoods, her claws in tights fists, each full of grass and rock and the left one grasping a sapling pulled up by its roots. The small meadow has grown significantly, its beauty marred by the wide swath of her destruction. Her breath is quick, shallow, panting, as she watches her fellow Taigans peer out again from the places they fled to - if they fled and she did not simply crush them. Popinjay laughs, but her voice is so different, a high, breathy trill, and she cannot make her beak form words.
It does not occur to her that they will not recognize her in this shape.
Popinjay
She was not quite what you would call refined
