Skaffwory's favorite perch
was atop one of the broadest loftrees in Quartzal. The bough itself stretched out into the air quite nicely, farther than any plank could without necessitating ademic or engineerical reinforcement, and this allowed her to oversee the Avuckka cliffsides, as well as a grand portion of walkers' Quartzal, whose most populated, public areas lay exposed to her vantage like the interior of a cracked-open bowl of honey infested with insects. The thought of it made her stomach ache somewhat and she shifted her weight back and forth, felt the branch creak beneath tightening talons and dip as she guarded her balance with fans of her wings and tail.
The air aside Quartzal was a chaotic thing. It was beaten constantly by motion of wings and tails, tongues, bus ferry motors, not to mention the passage of various classes of sylphs and vayu and the occasional flicker of demon, and then there was the Westerly, whose exhale was relatively even but whose inhale indicated the end of a passerine year, and some period of greater cold and precipitation in the sky.
Skaffwory of course had lived in this air for most of her life and so navigated it with the ease that one might have navigating the rooms of a very large and complicated house that they had inhabited since childhood, whose innards were littered with toys and sentimental baubles. Still, that didn't mean that she chose to breach this great mess all the time, or at least not for reasons so trivial as just wanting to or feeling like it, and so when she heard (from a particularly nosy and noisy slyph whose attentions she come somehow to garner frequently) that one of her youngest hatch was searching for her, she merely waited, baiting little salamanders near her with feather sticks and charcloth for warmth. Her eyes were still keen even at this age and from a distance she could spot a tiny figure colored white and herringbone sorrel, beating his way through midair traffic.
She crooned with amusement, throat bulging. It was clear that he had attempted rowing through the clearer perimeters of sky around Quartzal, but the Westerly's eventide coughs had buffeted him back into more crowded quarters. He was the runt of his clutch and still looked newly cracked, all large eyes and a certain scrawny, disproportionate look to him, like his body still hadn't quite filled in to his good-sized wings and fan. She'd named him Chimbeeriun, with a cheerful flourish at the end that no walker could manage whenever they were cursing the poor thing for crashing into their buildings.
He made it finally to her by crawling along the roofs and boughs of loftrees, launching himself from one to the other, appropriate antics for his brancher age. He was cleanly exhausted when he came within two boughs away from her, and drew no nearer, eying the salamanders twining and smoldering around her roost with hesitation. She ignored him, until finally he called out, piteously, "Skaffwory! Skaffwory!"
"What need have you, Chimbeeriun?"
"Skaffwory," he said, "I'm hungry."
"Where are your siblings?" Skaffwory asked, and Chimbeeriun shuffled on his perch, looking down and picking at a feather on his neck.
"They have food but I don't."
She huffed, feathers fluffing out; she tilted her head and eyed him imperiously, debating. He was not too old yet for her to refuse him, but indeed the others of this hatch had already stopped coming to her as frequently as he did, and she had heard that one of the more robust had already cast off his nest name. Something else that she found troubling about the youngest of this roost was that he had yet to express any real talent or interest in anything, and she wondered if she should begin to train him in ferrying to earn his living. He wasn't quite big enough though -- she imagined it likely that he would fold in half with a harness on his shoulders and drop like a rock.
"Come here," she told him, and Chimbeeriun lifted his head, pleased, and extended his wings to propel himself the distance between him and her; but then he saw the salamanders that made her roost glow, and stopped again.
"Don't fear them," Skaffwory advised him, and lifted a talon to scratch at her right brow even as she held out another scrap of charcloth to a salamander approaching. Her decisions were impenetrable; she waited and finally Chimbeeriun eased himself onto the boughs with a squawk, wincing as he set his talons to the heated bark. The salamanders skittered at his approach -- they were but weak ones, and left nothing behind but a veil of ash and embers.
Except for one. As Chimbeeriun settled against her side, Skaffwory saw that one salamander had stayed and was eying the runt with a remarkably curious sulfur-yellow eye. This one was larger than the rest, and therefore a higher class than the rest; she noted too that it had faint, bright blue points, and the other salamanders were beginning to eye and ease back onto the branch.
"Well," Skaffwory said with some measure of amusement, "I suppose it isn't hopeless for you after all, my runt."
The air aside Quartzal was a chaotic thing. It was beaten constantly by motion of wings and tails, tongues, bus ferry motors, not to mention the passage of various classes of sylphs and vayu and the occasional flicker of demon, and then there was the Westerly, whose exhale was relatively even but whose inhale indicated the end of a passerine year, and some period of greater cold and precipitation in the sky.
Skaffwory of course had lived in this air for most of her life and so navigated it with the ease that one might have navigating the rooms of a very large and complicated house that they had inhabited since childhood, whose innards were littered with toys and sentimental baubles. Still, that didn't mean that she chose to breach this great mess all the time, or at least not for reasons so trivial as just wanting to or feeling like it, and so when she heard (from a particularly nosy and noisy slyph whose attentions she come somehow to garner frequently) that one of her youngest hatch was searching for her, she merely waited, baiting little salamanders near her with feather sticks and charcloth for warmth. Her eyes were still keen even at this age and from a distance she could spot a tiny figure colored white and herringbone sorrel, beating his way through midair traffic.
She crooned with amusement, throat bulging. It was clear that he had attempted rowing through the clearer perimeters of sky around Quartzal, but the Westerly's eventide coughs had buffeted him back into more crowded quarters. He was the runt of his clutch and still looked newly cracked, all large eyes and a certain scrawny, disproportionate look to him, like his body still hadn't quite filled in to his good-sized wings and fan. She'd named him Chimbeeriun, with a cheerful flourish at the end that no walker could manage whenever they were cursing the poor thing for crashing into their buildings.
He made it finally to her by crawling along the roofs and boughs of loftrees, launching himself from one to the other, appropriate antics for his brancher age. He was cleanly exhausted when he came within two boughs away from her, and drew no nearer, eying the salamanders twining and smoldering around her roost with hesitation. She ignored him, until finally he called out, piteously, "Skaffwory! Skaffwory!"
"What need have you, Chimbeeriun?"
"Skaffwory," he said, "I'm hungry."
"Where are your siblings?" Skaffwory asked, and Chimbeeriun shuffled on his perch, looking down and picking at a feather on his neck.
"They have food but I don't."
She huffed, feathers fluffing out; she tilted her head and eyed him imperiously, debating. He was not too old yet for her to refuse him, but indeed the others of this hatch had already stopped coming to her as frequently as he did, and she had heard that one of the more robust had already cast off his nest name. Something else that she found troubling about the youngest of this roost was that he had yet to express any real talent or interest in anything, and she wondered if she should begin to train him in ferrying to earn his living. He wasn't quite big enough though -- she imagined it likely that he would fold in half with a harness on his shoulders and drop like a rock.
"Come here," she told him, and Chimbeeriun lifted his head, pleased, and extended his wings to propel himself the distance between him and her; but then he saw the salamanders that made her roost glow, and stopped again.
"Don't fear them," Skaffwory advised him, and lifted a talon to scratch at her right brow even as she held out another scrap of charcloth to a salamander approaching. Her decisions were impenetrable; she waited and finally Chimbeeriun eased himself onto the boughs with a squawk, wincing as he set his talons to the heated bark. The salamanders skittered at his approach -- they were but weak ones, and left nothing behind but a veil of ash and embers.
Except for one. As Chimbeeriun settled against her side, Skaffwory saw that one salamander had stayed and was eying the runt with a remarkably curious sulfur-yellow eye. This one was larger than the rest, and therefore a higher class than the rest; she noted too that it had faint, bright blue points, and the other salamanders were beginning to eye and ease back onto the branch.
"Well," Skaffwory said with some measure of amusement, "I suppose it isn't hopeless for you after all, my runt."
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