Just a simple story explaining how the Windwalkers first made their animal friends (being Eagles and other birds of Prey). This story is from second generation Windwalkers. Once again, Elfquest (c) Wendy and Richard Pini but the Windwalkers are mine.
To Tame A Harpy
Something called Robin to the rainforests that morning. He woke at dawn, as always, with a strange gnawing feeling in his soul. There was something calling to him, but he did not know what it was. Or why. He dressed in the usual, a rough open tunic, specially made to fit around his wing-arms, leggings and his thin leather boots. The boots were thin enough for him to grip a branch with his feet through, yet thick enough to protect his feet from the hard protrusions on said branch. He was one of the firstborn, the first of the Windwalkers, a race of bird-elves descended from Wolfrider stock. Wildwolf, chieftain of the pack and a pure blooded Wolfrider had named the winged elves after the wolf-friend of his mother. Windwalker had been an intelligent, long-legged wolf, of friendly disposition. The chief, and four of his friends, had left their pack after Wildwolf was exiled and settled here in this peaceful glade. Their children had been born deformed - or so had been the first thought - for they had feathered wing-arms.
Robin pushed back his braided copper red hair and glided from treetop to treetop. He did not know what gnawed at him, but his curiousity won out. It was one of the things that had earned him his name. Not knowing where to go, he merely flitted from tree to tree. The young elf was familiar with the forest surrounding the holt, knew every tree and the location of many of the plants of note. He also knew that what he sought was not near the holt.
At mid-afternoon, the elf caught himself a ringtail. The curious little creature made little effort to run away. He was obviously some distance from the holt, beyond usual hunting grounds. He skinned it quickly and ate the meat as it was supposed to be eaten - raw and dripping. As he licked the blood from his fingers, a brushtail, a creature the size of a ringtail with sharp teeth and a bad-tempered nature, came over to investigate. Its beady black eyes stared into Robin's grey-green ones and it poised, mouth opened in a mustelid grin. And something descended from the sky, almost too quick for the elf to observe it properly. There was a shower of feathers and fur, the squeal of a dying brushtail and suddenly, nothing. It had been a bird, a large bird, larger than any Robin had ever seen in such close quaters before. He picked up a feather. It was creamy white, with a brown tip. Now Robin's curiousity was thoroughly whetted. He had heard about the big birds, but had never seen one. Shimmer, the chief's daughter, had seen one not three dances of the moon ago. She had said it was an enormous bird, almost as tall as her. It had caught one of the wolf pups in talons so long that they had impaled it. He suppressed a shudder - if it could kill a wolf pup, it could harm an elven fledgling. Perhaps it would be preferable if he were to follow this bird, and see if there were more of them. Besides, he was extremely curious.
It was ridiculously hard to track winged creatures. Robin clambered/flapped to the top of the tree he was below, and scanned the surrounding forest as best he could. He was just in time to see the creature, dead brushtail still hanging from its talons, soar into a very tall tree some distance to the north. Ever so carefully, Robin soared after it, remaining close to the treetops, in case it felt like dessert.
As he neared the tree, the winged elf descended into a neighbouring tree and peered across at the enormous one. The great bird, and now he could see it properly, it was truly magnificant, was busily plucking pieces of flesh from the brushtail and placing them in a gaping beak. The huge mound of twigs that the bird was perched on obscured the rest of the view. Robin marvelled at the spectacular bird. One huge taloned footthe brushtail corpse to the nest, and with its powerful hooked beak it was stripping the creature of flesh. Its feathers were relatively pale in colour, being greyish-white, except for those on its head and wings. Its head was adorned by long brown feathers, which hung from its head almost like hair. Its eyes were golden and feral, like the wolves. Eventually the begging beaks subsided, and Robin saw now that there were two, although one seemed to be putting in less effort, as though it were weaker. The adult bird rose its huge wings, and they were so large Robin gasped in awe at the size of them. Such a powerful bird, truly the wolf of the skies! Pumping its wings, it flapped away, letting what remained of the brushtail drop to the ground below. Now the most dangerous animal was departed, Robin's curiousity got the better of him and he flapped over to the massive tree to investigate, keeping a careful eye out in case the bird, or perhaps its mate, returned. Slowly he shuffled towards the nest and peered in. There lay two chicks, obviously fairly young. Both were covered in fluffy white down, although in one of them feather shafts were forming. One was much larger than the other, and quite plump. It stared up at him with beady black eyes, before restingits head on its fat tummy and appearing to doze off. The other one was small, almost scrawny, and patches of its down had been plucked out. Its feathers were not growing. Its eyes were closed and it just looked weak. Robin knew little about eagles and birds of prey in general, but he guessed that one of the chicks was dominant, like in the wolf pack. A flapping of wings alarmed him, and he swooped from his perch. Something was flying about in the branches above. It did not appear to notice him, and he was quite relieved to see that it was merely a whistler-bird. His curiousity had, for the time being, abated, so he returned to the Holt.
*
Many times over the next few days, the winged elf visited the eagle nest in the massive tree. He would sit in the tree opposite it, hidden partly by foliage and watch the adult birds come to the nest and feed their chicks. Both adults were spectacular in size and wingspan, and with their brown hair-like crests and huge hooked bills, appeared very formidable. Gradually the chicks, particularly the dominant one, grew in size. He watched them as often as he could, fascinated by the family life of the mighty raptors. It was more entertaining than he would have previously suspected it could be, and the amount of food they ate! Everything from ringtails and squirrels to tapirs and giant water-rats. All of them the adults dismembered and fed to the fledglings, their huge beaks big enough to crush the chicks' heads. The birds seemed unaware of his presence, although one day, when he ventured over to investigate how the subordinate chick fared, he was given quite a scare.
The chick lay in the corner of the nest, scrawny and weak, eyes tightly shut. He had not seen it gape for food at all that day, yet it was not yet dead. The larger chick now had feathers. As Robin stared down at the poor weakling, feeling sorry for it. But that was the Way, the Way of the wolves, and seemingly the Way of the eagles as well. The strong survive. As he stared at the pathetic weakling, doomed so young, he failed to hear the whisper of the eagle's wings until it was almost upon him. He looked up, to see a huge bird descending on him, great bill gaping in a menacing fashion and a tapir piglet hanging from its talons. Fear welled in him as he did the only thing he could think of - dropped sharply from his perch and fell into a dive. Perhaps it was the burden the eagle carried, but it merely hissed a warning at him and alighted awkwardly on the edge of its nest. It began dismantling the meat as the larger chick asked it, not all that politely for food.
His original intent had been to investigate the birds and determine if they were a threat to hi flock, but he found himself more and more reluctant to report their presence to the chief. It was not likely, but what would happen if she decided to extermine them? Kill this family? Were the eagles all that different from his kin, hunting the jungle and doing their best to survive.
It saddened him to see the younger chick though - for all the speak of the Way, watching the older chick as it grew big and strong, bully its doomed sibling upset him. The larger chick was very active now, often watching the birds in the trees above with a hungry gleam in its eye. Somehow, the other chick still lived. It appeared much younger than the other, being much less developed, and if Robin had not seen them at a young age he would have suspected it was indeed a good deal younger. For some reason, one night, two eight-of-days after he had found the nest, a strange thought occurred to him. The dominant chick had been particularly malicious that day, dragging its sibling around the nest by its wings whilst the little creature squawked and flapped in a fruitless attempt to escape. Robin knew what he was going to do, although somehow he doubted the other elves would quite understand.
He slept little that night, so anxious was he about what he was planning to do. The next morning he went off on his own into a secluded part of the forest and set about transforming some of his older clothing into a bag. He needed the solitude because time was of the essence and he had no desire for curiousity from his peers or to be encouraged to do some chore or another. It took him a few hours to make a sturdy enough backpack out of the clothing, which he immediately adorned. It was a rough variation of the backpacks the mother elves employed to carry their offspring. It inhibited flight a little, but he could manage, for now.
Leaping through the trees, he soon arrived below the great tangled mess of branches that was the eagle's nest. Luckily the adult birds were absent, that was good. Fear danced on his spine, so much could go wrong, if everything went wrong, next time his family saw him he would be naught but a torn corpse. Or perhaps not even that. He had been watching the birds long enough to know that they were now away from the nest for some time, several hours at the least. Taking a deep breath he clambered up to rest beside the nest. The larger chick was asleep, head rested on its fat stomach. Good, the parent birds had been and gone recently, thus should not be back for a while, all the better for what he had planned. The smaller chick looked more scrawny then before, and for a moment Robin thought he was too late. It lay in the corner of the nest, one half-developed wing spread and covered in blood, looking for all the world like nothing more than a corpse. Then he saw that it still breathed. His resolve strengthened, he would do what he knew was right, not what the Way said was right. With great care, he reached over the edge of the nest and scooped up the younger chick. It was lighter than he expected, feeling like nothing more than skin and bones, yet he was unprepared for the reaction he got. Despite its weakness, the chick resented very strongly the action of being picked up. Its eyes snapped open and it began to struggle - that same fighting spirit that had surfaced when its sibling had attacked it. Letting out a startled "squawk" it began to kick and snap at him with its beak. Although small, the talons were sharp enough to draw blood wherever they hit and it was only through sheer luck that the bill, formidable even for its small size, missed grabbing some appendage or another. The other chick awoke from its slumber and let out an almighty racket, making such a loud squawking that Robin was sure the adults would return and maim him. With little ceremony he dumped the little spitfire into his makeshift frontpack and dropped into a glide. Just in time, for as he disappeared below the nest the great "whoosh" of wings caught his ears, as one of the adult birds swooped in to investigate the racket. The chick struggled for a short while, until it became weaker and sunk into silence once more. At least it had stopped that awlful racket, Robin shuddered to think what would happen if his little captive had the energy to scream as its larger sibling had.
By the time he returned to the Holt, the blood dripping down his arm had dried to a brown crust. His skin stung, he wished he had thought to wear gloves.
"It is good to see you have finally returned," Rillshadow muttered to him in a manner that reeked of sarcasm. Rillshadow, dark-haired and dark-eyed was his father, but you could not tell it from looking at the two together. In that respect Robin resembled his mother, Moonmirror, with her golden-red hair and silver eyes. His father was a skilled tracker, which was how he had earned his name - few hunters could track prey through water as Rillshadow could.
"I had a calling father," he replied. The Wolfriders, those without the wings, did not understand the Windwalkers as well as they would have thought they did. In one generation, the solid, natural thoughts and behaviours of the elves had been replaced by something more mystical. In that way, and other ways too, the Windwalkers more closely resembled their more distant ancestors, the true blooded elves. Windwalkers did not live for the Wolfsong as their parents did, something that stood them apart. Rillshadow barely understood the concept of "callings", certainly they had happened to Wolfriders, but not with the regularity they occured amongst the Windwalkers.
Rillshadow peered at him. "What is that in your carry bag?" His anger at his son's seeming lack of responsibility had been replaced by curiousity.
"A wolf of the skies," Robin replied, opening his bag so that his father could look within. The bird opened its beak in a hiss, which was about as menacing as that from a whistler-bird.
"Doesn't look like a wolf to me," the dark elf replied, grinning wryly. "Looks more like a chick. A very big chick. Well, do with it what you will, but remember son, this pack is small, we all have our responsibilities and tasks, and shirking them will make you most unpopular."
Robin nodded, he knew his father had a point. "As soon as this little fellow is fed and comfortable I shall attend to my duties."
Rillshadow nodded, his sternness forgotten. "I see great things for you son."
Robin's den was small, a cave created from twigs and branches, covered with a layer of cured hide. There had been no plant-shaping skills manifest in the pack as of yet, thus the elves were restricted to dens created on the ground, for there were no caves in the jungle. Since the major predator, the jaguar, was a hunter of the treetops as well as the ground, it was of no extra risk to the elves themselves. Humans, the major enemy of the elves, had not encroached on the rainforest and none of the Windwalkers had ever seen one. He placed the bird, in its carrying bag, beside his sleeping fur. The little creature had fallen asleep, probably from all the excitement. It did not take him long to track down, and kill, a squirrel, for the rodents were attracted to the glade by the amount of seeds and berries that the elves collected. He approached the chick with the squirrel corpse, noting its lack of reaction. Pausing, he wondered how to make it gape. When its parents alighted on the nest, it opened its beak, so he tried shaking the nest. The little chick opened its eyes, and orientated its head to focus on him, but did not open its beak. Oh well, he tore of one of the corpse's legs with the help of his teeth and his knife. Blood dripped down his chin and he licked it away. Eventually, he managed to work free a chunk of meat that he thought was about the size for the bird to manage. He shoved it in the vague direction of its beak. Still no real reaction, until, that is, a drop of blood fell from the meat and onto the bird's bill. Now it reacted, perhaps from the rich scent of blood, its bill snapped open and it began to make feeble begging noises whilst flapping its pathetic wings. It seemed somewhat surprised to be fed such a large amount, and was sated long before Robin had fed it the entire squirrel. That was something of a relief, because the effort of tearing the meat with his teeth was hurting his jaw. He ate the rest himself, no point in letting it go to waste and he doubted the bird would like its meat cold and long dead. As the youngster sunk into sleep, he returned to his duties. After facing scolding for his mother about the necessity to bind his wounds however!
*
Now it was being fed properly, the eagle chick grew very swiftly. Within an eight-of-days it had began to sprout its feathers, and within two dances of the moons it was rather resembling its parents. Now it would rush to the mouth of the den to meet Robin when he arrived with food, calling hungrily. No longer did he need to tear its food, for it quickly began to do it all by itself. Robin handled it continuously, sometimes forgetting to wear gloves, and his arms and hands became quite scarred. It was not that the bird was aggressive to him, merely that it did not yet know its own strength, and when something alarmed it, like the screeching of a parrot, it would dig in its talons, and they were sharp. After much nagging from his parents, chief and peers, Robin constructed a thick leather glove for it to perch on. This was fortunate, because soon its claws became to sharp that they began to dig through the more standard gloves. Soon he knew it would be too large to perch on him at all, already it was taller than his knee when standing upright, and growing quickly. He had less time to venture away from the Holt now, but he managed to steal away occasionally to see how his chick's sibling was managing. The bird was impressively larger than his little creature, but seemed to lack the personality. He was glad to see that the nest appeared to have been little disturbed by his chick-napping. Probably the parents thought some type of predator had got it and eaten it - not raised it!
The young bird got its first chance to see the outside world and meet the pack almost three moon dances after Robin had abducted it. All the elves had heard about Robin's strange animal friend, but few had seen it. He brought the fledgling out to one of the feasts. It was not a particularly large feast, for the entire pack numbered less than two eights, but it was still frightening for the chick. It cowered in Robin's lap, staring about with wide eyes, whilst Robin fervently hoped it would not take fear and massacre his groin. Eventually it was lured into being sociable by scraps of meat, for the little bird had a voracious appetite.
"I do not think you are a Robin anymore," Wildwolf, the chief, stated amicably. "I think Talon is a more applicable description."
"Or," quipped Shimmer, "perhaps Talon-scarred!"
The elves shared a laugh. But after that, Robin found himself being referred to as Talon more and more frequently, until eventually he stopped being Robin at all.
"So what do you call the bird?" Asked Whisp, a quiet, pale elf pup who was sitting with her wolf-friend's head in her lap.
The newly named Talon paused. He did not think of the eagle with a name at all, perhaps as a spitfire. He shrugged.
"I think he is a Harpy," Whisp murmured, startling all of them, Wolfriders and Windwalkers alike.
"He?" Queried Talon, who had never known how to tell the gender.
"Harpy?" Queried Shimmer at the same time.
"It's a he," Whisp stated firmly. "I know. And he's also a Harpy. But I don't think that's his name."
"How do you know?" Asked Lacrimosa, the true elf of the flock and Whisp's mother.
Whisp shrugged her delicate shoulder. "Just do," she replied, stroking Squirrel-chaser, her wolf-friend.
Lacrimosa grinned at Wildwolf, who was also Whisp's father. She winked. "I think we have out first soul-reader here," she said happily. Wildwolf grinned with pride.
"I don't have a name for him," Talon continued. "But he is like a little thunder storm, especially at feeding time, do you think Storme is a good name for him?"
Whisp nodded. "Yes, a very good name."
*
Storme grew into a fine bird, not quite as large as his sibling, but sleek and magnificant. He had quite a personality, and regarded Talon in such high esteem that for a time the bird followed him everywhere. In many ways its behaviour was similar to the wolves, but in many other ways it was completely different. With time Talon taught Storme to hunt with him, making it easier for him to bring down larger prey in a much quicker fashion. Whisp was the next of the Windwalkers to decide she wanted a harpy-friend, and persuaded Talon to help her find a nest. Talon did, because noone understood the behaviour of the harpies than he did, for he watched them continuously. However, he made it clear to any of his peers who wanted a harpy to go for the one that probably would not survive otherwise. The eagles were not overly common in the jungle and he did not want to scare them away. After two complete two turns-of-the-seasons, Storme and Slasher (Whisp's harpy-friend) built their own nest, raising one chick succesfully, and Talon was content in the knowledge that they would not need to steal chicks forever. Although the bond between elf and bird was not nearly as strong as that between elf and wolf, with time the two began to understand each other quite well - they were both beasts of the skies, and when the last of the Wolfriders died, the wolves became obsolete. If Windwalkers could still bond with wolves, they did not care to find out, and eventually the elf-pack and the wolf-pack went their own seperate ways. Every so often a hunting elf would see the shape of a lupine hunter stealing through the bushes below him, and perhaps a part of them remembered. With their loss of the wolves, the Windwalkers also lost their ability to speak aloud. They were creatures of the skies, often a long way from each other, and Sending became the norm, until eventually they just stopped speaking. This may seem sad in a way, but with the end of their Wolfrider behaviour, the new Windwalker ways formed and a new Way was born. The Way of the Wind.