There. There.
The light — but not wirelight. Firelight. He knew that orange-red glimmer from anywhere.
Making it up to her favorite stump in this weather was less a matter of flying and more of swimming and crawling. He made it a fair distance before his wings began to burn with the heaviness of the water saturating every feather; by then he had made it to the dense cluster of loftrees and gripped the loftrees with fingers and talons, gripping as much as his weak hand muscles allowed and as tightly as his talons could without him having to struggle to unclutch them from the irony wood. One branch after the other, crawling roachlike on the seething tangle, water collecting and dripping off his brows — the firelight — the firelight —
He stopped moving, though was not motionless — the sylphs were seething and they felt him, and pressed against his body, squeezing it with antagonism, shaking his branch — it bobbed up and down pendulous lengths and it was all he had to keep his calm and grip. They were worse now — they were angrier than they ever had been. It wasn't just the seasonal aggression — well, that was part of it — but they were angry at him.
"Leave me be," he wailed, and then shouted — "Leave me be! Come on! What did I ever do to you?"
He could feel the hatred in the wind, the jealousy of it.
"I need to get to Skaffwory," he explained, as if they would care. "I need to get to her."
It howled — it raged — it sobbed and spat at his body, shearing feathers, scratching skin. Begging, demanding.
Be afraid!
Making it up to her favorite stump in this weather was less a matter of flying and more of swimming and crawling. He made it a fair distance before his wings began to burn with the heaviness of the water saturating every feather; by then he had made it to the dense cluster of loftrees and gripped the loftrees with fingers and talons, gripping as much as his weak hand muscles allowed and as tightly as his talons could without him having to struggle to unclutch them from the irony wood. One branch after the other, crawling roachlike on the seething tangle, water collecting and dripping off his brows — the firelight — the firelight —
He stopped moving, though was not motionless — the sylphs were seething and they felt him, and pressed against his body, squeezing it with antagonism, shaking his branch — it bobbed up and down pendulous lengths and it was all he had to keep his calm and grip. They were worse now — they were angrier than they ever had been. It wasn't just the seasonal aggression — well, that was part of it — but they were angry at him.
"Leave me be," he wailed, and then shouted — "Leave me be! Come on! What did I ever do to you?"
He could feel the hatred in the wind, the jealousy of it.
"I need to get to Skaffwory," he explained, as if they would care. "I need to get to her."
It howled — it raged — it sobbed and spat at his body, shearing feathers, scratching skin. Begging, demanding.
Be afraid!
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