Nyctllr looked up very warily at the sharp beak pointing down at her. Troyte glanced toward the floor, puzzled by this peculiar creature with both fur and wings. Clearly, neither knew precisely what to make of the other.
They maintained this almost comically exaggerated position for quite some time. Troyte finally broke this lock, making the first move forward. His calculation was not exact, however, and again the hawk skidded uncontrollably forth. Nyctllr automatically moved to the defensive, small fangs bared and wingsails spread.
Having not intended a hostile advance, Troyte managed to swerve his skid away. ÒWhoa, whoa, hold back, cummon...Just curious. Never seen aÑÓ
ÒBat,Ó Nyctllr supplied tersely. ÒAnd youÕre lying. You captured us yesterday. DonÕt lie.Ó
TroyteÕs eyes widened in surprise. ÒCaptured? Me? Now come on...Ó The hawk made a wide wing gesture about the room. ÒIf IÕd actually meant to catch you, which of course I didnÕt, why on land or in sky would I have stuck you in here, up high, in a veritable cage, and whatÕs more in the same boat as myself. Unlikely, very much so.Ó Troyte clacked his blunted beak for finality.
To the roomÕs side, Llewtcy squeaked feebly, trying whatever she could (and to no use) to ease or ignore the searing pain of a long tear in her membranous wing. Nyc turned a compassionate eye toward her friend, but it hardened again in respect to Troyte. ÒYou still knocked us down.Ó
ÒWhat makes you think that I meant it?Ó Troyte queried incredulously. ÒDo I look like a maniac to you?Ó
ÒWell if, not you, then who?Ó Nyc tapped a footpaw.
ÒBeast by the name of Nadal ob Insame.Ó TroyteÕs tone seemed mildly irritated at the name.
Sensing conspiracy, Nyc shot back, ÒHow do I know thatÕs not your name?Ó
The hawk puffed offendedly. ÒWhy, IÕm Troyte Nevinson Sinclair!Ó
Turning morosely from a stare out the window, Holdsclaw sneered, ÒKrah...No such feared name would fit such a buffoon! Arrak! He was here earlier. You still slept. He came, he took Quillfletcher, he left. Arrak!Ó The normally martial raven seemed indeed distressed by the absence of his lieutenant.
For once, Troyte wasnÕt moved to quarrel with Holdsclaw. Nodding vigorously, he elaborated, ÒNadalÕs a weasel, tall skinny, wispy beard and sunken eyes. Really quite frightening. HeÕs got a horde, of course, but we donÕt really see them. ThereÕs a fox and a rat too, they do show up, scary too. Scary in different ways. The ratÕs big and armed, and the fox...Well, heÕs scary because he doesnÕt look all that scary, if you know what I mean.Ó
ÒKrrk,Ó Holdsclaw interjected, darkly as before. ÒYou speak much for having been here so short a time.Ó The ravenÕs gaze did not stray from the window.
Troyte made no sign that heÕd heard the comment. ÒBut anyway, he uses us to fly.Ó
ÒTo...fly?Ó Nyc repeated skeptically.
ÒIndeed.Ó Troyte nodded.
ÒI donÕt see how that makes sense, what thatÕs supposed to mean.Ó
Before Troyte or Holdsclaw could satiate the batÕs inquiries, a giant arrow with fletching of ink black streaked past the window. Astride the shaft was a stoat, grinning dementedly, swinging his fist as if twirling a lasso.
NyctllrÕs hostility vanished. ÒTo fly. I...see.Ó
*****
Raskol the stoat had never felt anything quite like this before. He admitted to himself that heÕd been scared to be chosen, that the giant bow and arrow had worried him to the extreme, that the twang of the string had brought his fur to stand on end. Raskol would only admit it to himself, though, because now that he was aloft he was loving every second of it.
The stoat extended his arms, imagining that they were wings, looking straight on into the clear blue midday sky. He paid no heed to the oversized arrow that bore him, instead yearning back to the fantasies of any youngbeast that ever hoped to occupy the skies. Aloft, Raskol didnÕt think of himself as a hordebeast, a pioneer, or any position. He was just a creature enjoying the time of his life.
Below, treetops whisked by, a treasurable lay of the land. But focused on sky alone Raskol did not notice the treetops growing steadily closer to his dangling footpaws. Like all projectiles, arrows move in parabolic paths. RaskolÕs arrow, despite its size and purpose, was no different. Having moved past its apex unnoticed, the arrow was seemingly suddenly throwing Raskol hard against the ground, graciously snapping his neck before his illusion of flight was shattered.
They maintained this almost comically exaggerated position for quite some time. Troyte finally broke this lock, making the first move forward. His calculation was not exact, however, and again the hawk skidded uncontrollably forth. Nyctllr automatically moved to the defensive, small fangs bared and wingsails spread.
Having not intended a hostile advance, Troyte managed to swerve his skid away. ÒWhoa, whoa, hold back, cummon...Just curious. Never seen aÑÓ
ÒBat,Ó Nyctllr supplied tersely. ÒAnd youÕre lying. You captured us yesterday. DonÕt lie.Ó
TroyteÕs eyes widened in surprise. ÒCaptured? Me? Now come on...Ó The hawk made a wide wing gesture about the room. ÒIf IÕd actually meant to catch you, which of course I didnÕt, why on land or in sky would I have stuck you in here, up high, in a veritable cage, and whatÕs more in the same boat as myself. Unlikely, very much so.Ó Troyte clacked his blunted beak for finality.
To the roomÕs side, Llewtcy squeaked feebly, trying whatever she could (and to no use) to ease or ignore the searing pain of a long tear in her membranous wing. Nyc turned a compassionate eye toward her friend, but it hardened again in respect to Troyte. ÒYou still knocked us down.Ó
ÒWhat makes you think that I meant it?Ó Troyte queried incredulously. ÒDo I look like a maniac to you?Ó
ÒWell if, not you, then who?Ó Nyc tapped a footpaw.
ÒBeast by the name of Nadal ob Insame.Ó TroyteÕs tone seemed mildly irritated at the name.
Sensing conspiracy, Nyc shot back, ÒHow do I know thatÕs not your name?Ó
The hawk puffed offendedly. ÒWhy, IÕm Troyte Nevinson Sinclair!Ó
Turning morosely from a stare out the window, Holdsclaw sneered, ÒKrah...No such feared name would fit such a buffoon! Arrak! He was here earlier. You still slept. He came, he took Quillfletcher, he left. Arrak!Ó The normally martial raven seemed indeed distressed by the absence of his lieutenant.
For once, Troyte wasnÕt moved to quarrel with Holdsclaw. Nodding vigorously, he elaborated, ÒNadalÕs a weasel, tall skinny, wispy beard and sunken eyes. Really quite frightening. HeÕs got a horde, of course, but we donÕt really see them. ThereÕs a fox and a rat too, they do show up, scary too. Scary in different ways. The ratÕs big and armed, and the fox...Well, heÕs scary because he doesnÕt look all that scary, if you know what I mean.Ó
ÒKrrk,Ó Holdsclaw interjected, darkly as before. ÒYou speak much for having been here so short a time.Ó The ravenÕs gaze did not stray from the window.
Troyte made no sign that heÕd heard the comment. ÒBut anyway, he uses us to fly.Ó
ÒTo...fly?Ó Nyc repeated skeptically.
ÒIndeed.Ó Troyte nodded.
ÒI donÕt see how that makes sense, what thatÕs supposed to mean.Ó
Before Troyte or Holdsclaw could satiate the batÕs inquiries, a giant arrow with fletching of ink black streaked past the window. Astride the shaft was a stoat, grinning dementedly, swinging his fist as if twirling a lasso.
NyctllrÕs hostility vanished. ÒTo fly. I...see.Ó
*****
Raskol the stoat had never felt anything quite like this before. He admitted to himself that heÕd been scared to be chosen, that the giant bow and arrow had worried him to the extreme, that the twang of the string had brought his fur to stand on end. Raskol would only admit it to himself, though, because now that he was aloft he was loving every second of it.
The stoat extended his arms, imagining that they were wings, looking straight on into the clear blue midday sky. He paid no heed to the oversized arrow that bore him, instead yearning back to the fantasies of any youngbeast that ever hoped to occupy the skies. Aloft, Raskol didnÕt think of himself as a hordebeast, a pioneer, or any position. He was just a creature enjoying the time of his life.
Below, treetops whisked by, a treasurable lay of the land. But focused on sky alone Raskol did not notice the treetops growing steadily closer to his dangling footpaws. Like all projectiles, arrows move in parabolic paths. RaskolÕs arrow, despite its size and purpose, was no different. Having moved past its apex unnoticed, the arrow was seemingly suddenly throwing Raskol hard against the ground, graciously snapping his neck before his illusion of flight was shattered.
