A common problem in society is that most beasts hold on to good things for too long, at which point those good things go sour and devastate the creature's purposes. Nyctllr, however, knew of this historical facet. It was under that reason that Nyc deliberately extracted herself from the Windburn's path after some length of coasting above unfamiliar territory.
Troyte followed reluctantly, watching the path of treetops disturbed by the constant wind. What was that for? It was going so nicely, and we don't seem to be at any distinguishable red building. If it had been anatomically possible for Troyte to have crossed his wings, he would have done so. What good is this going to do us?
Nyc assured Troyte, are an overgrown baby. I have no idea where Redwall is, or whether or not the Windburn goes there.
So we're going to find it any better by having to think and fly at once? If Troyte's beak had the capability to frown, he would have done that as well.
Nyc, however, was perfectly capable of scowling, and that she did. You're wasting your energy complaining. If I can fly during daylight, you can certainly do this. With a broad swoop of her wings, Nyc pulled herself back aloft.
Troyte rustled up to follow her, but before he'd reached the treetops something whacked him squarely on the beak. Hey! What in blazes was that for?!
Nyc turned back, utter confusion on her face. I didn't...
She too shut up as a peculiar creature crawled out noiselessly onto a treebranch between herself and Troyte. The creature was vaguely musteline, and clad in various gauzes of forest shades. The contours of its face weren't distinguishable as either gender, but as the voice slipped out from the strangely serenely smiling mouth, Nyc and Troyte assumed that was the proper pronoun for the creature. You traverse these regions to the crimson quadrangle, no?
Nyc and Troyte exchanged puzzled stares. What? Who are you?
The creature slipped into a well-balanced crouch on the branch. Raglé I am, Raglé the Enigma I am. This plot of land, this lichen bloom is my cartography, in the storage of my synapses. Hearken, hearken to me and need you not trailblaze.
Nyc and Troyte could only repeat themselves.
Raglé turned her head to the side. Auralized your directive, I did. You seek the crimson quadrangle, to which you not long arrive. Sail the river, airriver not mossriver. The destination is precognitive, the implementation elementary.
But Raglé appeared to be done with her message, upon which she dematerialized into the trees.
That. Made. No. Sense, Troyte stated clearly.
That's a valid complaint, Nyc agreed. Let's...um...just keep going as we were...
Even Troyte seemed somewhat repressed after that encounter.
Bat and hawk resumed flying, only to be stopped again by another poke.
Troyte snapped before he turned, Make it clear this time!e
Sparra always clear, hawkworm. You come-a with Nuthead.
Troyte spluttered disbelievingly, bewilderment changing to amusement. Calling yourself a nuthead is no way to be fearsome!
Nuthead, however, was no Raglé. His seriousness was not mystical, but grim. Come-a with Nuthead, flyworms.
