Terrors of the night...
The night was cold and hazed, a cold wind blew and the salt covered land reflected the night sky hidden by clouds. A soft moan and a mumble were heard as feathers rustled, and there was a light screech. Green eyes quickly opened, sharp and ready before softening, there was a rustle of cloth before large warm hands pick up a soft bundle. A soft purr like noise sung through the air as humming was started by the women, slightly echoing within the canyons walls, the small group having decided that it was safer then been out in the open.
There was a gurgle before soft cooing was made, more rustle of cloth before a question was softly asked. An answer then more coos. The rustle of cloth was heard as low voices were exchanged and the last one woken. The small camp was quickly and quietly packed up. Soft, fluffy feathers rustled and quiet screeching and whistling was heard. Buckles were done up and strings tied, cloth wrapped around faces and everything double checked all the while the people moving as fast as they could.
The two children and a baby were put on the birds, the adult riders holding onto them tightly. But before the last child could be placed on, a surprised gasp ran through the small group. The children's eyes widened, sensing the adults were surprised and ready to fight.
From just meters away, a loud, high pitched hunting call rang out through the air, echoing off the canyon walls, and sharp talons dug into the ground and pushed forward, the power behind leaving a foot print in the soft stone. Feathers whistled in the wind and large, strong beaks snapped.
The group scattered, having been unprepared for the attack, the children keeping silent and holding on as best they could as their protectors soul-birds ran away from danger, their long legs reaching out across sand and stone. Screeching and hunting calls filled the air for miles that night, and by morning hardly anything was left. Both human and soul-bird had been taken by the Terrors of the night, the children lost to death before their lives could start. Only a few lucky ones survived, their birds having been fast enough to outrun the Terrors, and even from them fewer lived.
That day the sun shone a blood red as a small boy-child crawled out of his hiding space between a few rocks, his big eyes looking around. He stood there shaky, scared, lost and alone until the Terrors came back. His brown-sandy clothing already ripped and torn, blood covered every inch of his small, skinny body...
A small group of people were crowded around three people and a soul-bird: a young man, a teenage girl and a young girl. All were tired, bloody and covered with feathers and dirt, the bird carrying the young girl while the other two had walked. The three had stumbled into the large group as they travelled in the morning light, words were swapped between the two different groups before the three were taken in and cared for...
It was believed that only three survived the attack and lived on. Tales of large, 2 meter tall hunting birds with a beak strong enough to break skulls, white feathers and legs strong enough to bring down a soul-bird were scattered around the tribes, warnings to tell the others to keep their guard, but no one knew if they were true or not. After all, stories are always told out-of-proportion, are they not?