01-07-2025, 10:09 PM
Her paws beat an even rhythm against the black earth. The sun was rising, hot and red on the horizon, silhouetting the runner in ethereal blood shades. The land was flat for miles, wide open in a way that would make even the smallest of creatures unable to hide. She was built for this land, her legs long, her coat shorn thin by the wind. Kingfisher was the product of dozens of generations and harsh conditions to create what she was.
Her thunder slowed at the sight of the tents, sliding to a dusty stop just outside the camp. Her tongue hung glistening from her mouth. Hawk cast her a glance from beside the fire, alarm spreading quickly across their features. Kingfisher met their alarm with a solemn nod, to which Hawk cursed, turned, and marched into the tent. And Kingfisher was off.
Kingfisher was the newest of her line. Hawk was an old hand. It was how they’d gotten their position. Not a roamer. It was a position Kingfisher coveted more than anything else.
Kingfisher was a messenger. A roaming one, bouncing between pack after pack after roaming band, carrying mail, news, and recently, calls to action. To war. It had swallowed the east whole, and she carried the need for soldiers to the wastes and flat plains. No one could argue with the call from their emperor. But many had no one to send.
And many more didn’t enjoy being asked.
Kingfisher would never know who slammed into their side, or who grabbed her face and wrenched it up. But she would know the howl of cold, and then nothing at all.
She blinked to with a quake. It was freezing where she was, tucked just out of reach of the surf. It lapped greedily at her ankles as she desperately crawled further up shore, until she could lay in the sand, gasping and wheezing.
“The fuck?” Kingfisher murmured to herself, limbs folded to her chest.
Her thunder slowed at the sight of the tents, sliding to a dusty stop just outside the camp. Her tongue hung glistening from her mouth. Hawk cast her a glance from beside the fire, alarm spreading quickly across their features. Kingfisher met their alarm with a solemn nod, to which Hawk cursed, turned, and marched into the tent. And Kingfisher was off.
Kingfisher was the newest of her line. Hawk was an old hand. It was how they’d gotten their position. Not a roamer. It was a position Kingfisher coveted more than anything else.
Kingfisher was a messenger. A roaming one, bouncing between pack after pack after roaming band, carrying mail, news, and recently, calls to action. To war. It had swallowed the east whole, and she carried the need for soldiers to the wastes and flat plains. No one could argue with the call from their emperor. But many had no one to send.
And many more didn’t enjoy being asked.
Kingfisher would never know who slammed into their side, or who grabbed her face and wrenched it up. But she would know the howl of cold, and then nothing at all.
She blinked to with a quake. It was freezing where she was, tucked just out of reach of the surf. It lapped greedily at her ankles as she desperately crawled further up shore, until she could lay in the sand, gasping and wheezing.
“The fuck?” Kingfisher murmured to herself, limbs folded to her chest.
the staff team luvs u
