A young roc muttered to his sleeping mate, keeping one red eye on the little groundling below. It had emerged from the shadows below his nest without any warning at all, cawing rudely. It skreeked and clicked and growled to itself, rabid and stumbling. It didn't look toward the rocs' nest, or raise shining pain-sticks into the air, but groundlings were never to be trusted.
The wind wasn't good - thin with twilight, and going the wrong way to make a dive easy. This whole winter had been one of bad winds and crackling green storms.
But this one wayward groundling wandering abroad at twilight was small.
And injured.
Winter was a time of poor hunting.
The roc chirred to his mate in an undertone, nudging her awake. She complained, pecking at his head until he persuaded her to look down.
Her beak parted in anticipation.
The roc dropped from his branch, wings folded, feeling the wind for the right moment to snap his wings and bank toward his prey. Too soon, and it might hear him in time to ready pain-sticks or hide under one of the empty groundling structures at the edge of the next box canyon.
Too late, and his least favorite clutchmate nesting on that side might catch it first.
The wind shifted at the most perfect moment. He wanted to crow over the beauty of his perfect swoop and first debilitating strike. The groundling fell under his fisted talons with a rasping cry. The roc banked sharply, descending with his talons open for the kill.
He neither saw nor felt the lightning which ended him.
