Assassin by Proxy
by
Scribe~Of~RED
Prey. Without it, your life has no meaning. You live for the next kill, but that kill isn't always yours to deliver. There are times you are called upon to aid a hunt beyond the scope of your own. The earth-shadows are savage, and you require a partner to ensure the deaths of those unfit to live.
Today the knowledge of such a hunt surges through you—a burning need to complete the kill.
You are glorious in flight. Brown and white feathers, long and short both, gleam in the afternoon sun, a testament to your excellent health. Each slow, powerful flap of your wide wings carries you closer to the city of Jerusalem.
Heat radiates off the high, pale stone walls, and you soar the uplifting thermals, ascending to the heavens on strength beyond your own.
From above, you gaze upon the beige sandstone of the city. Between the flat roofed buildings and bright hued, flapping cloth strung between them, you occasionally glimpse the migration of humans as they glide through the recessed streets.
A single, pale shadow breaks free of the multitude and—smooth, graceful; hunter, predator—scales the side of one of the taller structures. Recognition keens sharp in your breast, and you descend upon the tower on silent wings, circling for a closer look.
It pulls itself to the wooden perch and crouches, white with a sash of blood. The hooded head lifts, and you bank toward it. Gold eyes meet gold eyes. The beaked head glances down, and you mimic.
Below you are a herd of brightly colored shadows. A large one stands apart from the others, the cerulean-adorned back facing the tower. Featherless wings wave in a mockery of flight, and a booming voice carries up to even you.
Reflexively, your talons curl, as though sinking deep into rich flesh. With a piercing cry, you wheel through the air, which is heavy with heat and curling with dust.
The pale shadow rises, now level with you, now diving toward the ground. A moment passes—a glint of silver flashes, a strange, straight talon—and you watch with the intense stare of a disciplined hunter as the blood-dove sweeps down in perfect flight and alights on the oversized bluebird, which crumbles under the weight. Crimson sprays from the extended, unorthodox talon, staining the motes in the air before joining the sand, where you know it will soon be absorbed by the ground, greedy for any liquid, uncaring of whose lifeblood it has to spill to satiate its thirst.
A bell tolls. Prey scream, scatter as they detect the scent of death. The blood-dove stands in their midst—the only calm in the whirlwind of their graceless panic. Behind it rises another: a gray fledgling, longer talon raised. You whistle; the blood-dove whirls, a red and white blur; one fluid extension and the ugly pigeon crashes, unworthy of the mud it dies on.
The blood-dove turns. It looks at you, and you at it. Its beak dips in recognition and thanks, and you loose a shrill, precise cry: a warning to those within range. Those of the way of true flight are not to be trifled with.
Some will heed your warning. Others will satisfy the planet's thirst.
You arc above the city. From your wing a feather pulls free—at your biding—to float down: a gift to the blood-dove, but also a reminder. You will always be there to protect it, but never should it take its wings for granted.
A mighty flap of your wings sends you streaking towards the wild lands. You have aided a hunt. Now it is time to begin your own.
Betaed by ScribeOfRhapsody and StellarRequiem. Thanks, gals!