Goldenrod-hued light cast down through a crack in the rocks, ricocheting its beams from slab to slab and finally falling as one concentrated diagonal shaft on the otherwise dark cave floor. The angle of this column of light slowly lengthened, eventually not bending much in its path to cross the nose of a sleeping beast.
Nyctllr stirred, mumbling softly and scrunching back onto her bed, opening one eye only and regarding the shaft. It served as her alarm clock—to use an anachronistic term—falling precisely so at the time at which she needed to wake up. Nyctllr eventually drew herself upward and peered out the crack in the wall, the pupils in her dark eyes opening to the dim carmine-crimson sky. No matter how tired she may have been, the biological clock within her caused her to respond so each day.
Another figure glided ecstatically into the room. "Nyctllr! Hey Nyc!" The voice was young and excited, and its somewhat tubby owner prodded Nyc in the shoulder. "There's moths, Nyc!"
"Uhhh, Llewtcy..." Nyc turned and shoved Llewtcy back. "So it's the first of the season. You know as well as I do, Llew, that they'll be around all night and so on for weeks..."
Llewtcy stamped a footpaw indignantly, her vocal tone fringing on a whine. "You have no joy in getting there first?"
The coming of the first moths of the season remains a significant celebration for the bats of Fyngall's Cave. These silent wings of night are respected by the bats even as they are harvested; not more are to be taken than are intended for culinary practices. Gnats, mosquitoes, and beetles in their loud approach to flight do not garner the same reverence as moths, who the bats most liken to themselves.
Nyc stretched her wings and yawned, looking again at the rapidly diminishing patch of light. "I'm sure they don't take the same festive cast to the occasion."
Llew rolled her eyes, exasperated by her friend's dry logic. "Well at least come outside. You'd be plain stupid to keep away in here all night, what when the air's so nice. Plain downright stupid."
Logic holds no objections to a bit of fresh air. Stretching her sails a bit wider, Nyctllr walked after the exuberantly bounding Llewtcy, lifting off with an eased flick of her wings upon exiting the cave.
Most of the other Fyngall bats were already out and about, coasting in repose on the characteristic breezes of an early summer evening. Insects of all varieties shared the skies, though the furred individuals were only on this occasion interested in the dust-winged silent moths. These were abundant; the bats did not need artificial lights to draw their special breakfasts to them.
Llewtcy flew about with her mouth open, nondiscriminatory in her choice of fare. She winged in the wake of other bats, scooping up those insects scared off in the wake of other beating sails. She stored the bugs in her cheeks not unlike how a chipmunk or squirrel will sometimes hold nuts, crunching and catching all at once. Nyctllr lazed alongside her stomach-oriented friend, snatching the occasional morsel in flight but initially burning all absorbed energy through the motion of her wings.
As time progressed the bats ventured and further from the cave, a migration reserved for the occasion of months. Fruit could be sought by small parties of scouts sent in various directions, but the phenomenon of great clouds of moths needed to be pursued. Nyc, her stomach filled, followed in tradition, and soon, rising higher, found herself swept by a constant stream of wind.
"Whoo!" she whooped, skimming out of the current, then backing up and riding it again. "Llew!" Nyc's sleepy dryness wore off with the exhilarating breath of air.
Llew winged over, a moth antenna stuck between her teeth. "Wot?"
Nyc demonstrated the current again. "Look! It's the Windburn! I've heard of it, but I've never found it before!"
Llew flew up, though below the draw of the current. "Looks fun, yes," she noted, "but I shouldn't. The ride would do my guts a terrible turn. Y'know, I think I ate too much..."