2022-05-19 - The Crooked Beak of Heaven

Between one fern and the next, a youth now steps along the trail within the central part of the group: a trainee, black hair wound back with shell-stranded sinew, long brown legs lightly cross-hatched from berry thorns, with a folded cloth padding the carry-basket where it weighs heavily upon narrow shoulders. A hip-belt holds other necessities, among them a pouch with coiled snares, a sling and a knife -- but not a metal knife, not now.

Another young brave, not yet twenty summers old, walks with light steps and a light heart. He's the kind of youth who sports too much confidence in a face that still has baby fat but also the eyes of a wild doe, soft and mournful. A short leather skirt protects his most vulnerable parts from brambles and insects, and a woven, tasseled bag hangs off one shoulder for his sparse belongings; a small axe with a sharp flint blade hangs off one hip -- a tool, rather than a weapon, though it can probably be used as one in a tight spot.

He knows there are dangers in the woods. He's young and he's strong, and they can bring it. He is the kind of youth that makes the old men shake their heads and talk about how they were never so young, never so foolish, never so brash.

A little older than the other two, the woman with the bow and bone arrows strides nearer to the back of the group. Her eyes are alert, keeping careful watch on the group's surroundings. Her attire is deerskin, and that dark hair is braided to one side and slung over one shoulder, laced with sweetgrass between the braid.

She too carries a small pouch on one hip, though it's contents carries medicinal herbs and salves that one might find from a healer.

One of the trackers is another another woman, tallish and lean; a few raven feathers adorn one of her braids, but otherwise her hunting gear is plain, utilitarian. Even the spear she carries serves dual function as a walking stick, helping to move this or that. At near-fixed intervals, regular as the silent count of steps, she looks back in a quick check on the main group, for though she might range ahead she never quite goes out of sight of the sharpest-eyed.

One of the older men that shakes his head at that one particular youth moves at the back of the pack. One of the most experienced braves of the tribe, he is certainly the biggest. The broad shouldered man strapped with a few spears to his back over a hide painted shield. A weighty adze hangs from his waist, the tip of the widened cudgel sporting a fair bit of dried blood haphazardly splattered around the crude weapon. The brave moves with a wary swagger, not a confidence of youth, seeking to prove, but one who has seen much and fortunate enough to survive when others have not. Wearing breech cloth and a few leather straps to keep his spears snug against his back, his carved axe swinging at his hip.

Perhaps the oldest of the men in this hunting party, not the biggest, not the tallest nor the fastest, though he might just be the meanest, is the one with the braided, greying beard and dark hair strung with beads and raven feathers. He walks a pace or two from Myles; his the slow prowl of a predatory animal keen for the hunt to begin. The elder travels light, attired in soft buckskin painted for camouflage. A blade is strapped to his thigh, and a wicked looking bow appears to be his preferred weapon, with a quiver of arrows slung across his hip.

Trust the brash youth with the eyes like dark fire to smirk every time he catches sight of the older men. Oh for the pride and arrogance of youth; his body is young and strong, his heart brims with pride and confidence. Heron they call him -- like his name bird, he is strong and fierce. Balanced when he wants to be. Aggressive when he doesn't. If his years are many enough he may grow wise enough to earn another name.

He looks for signs of prey worth hunting; the flash of a deer's tail at the edge of his vision or slight changes in the noises of birds as a stag or an elk moves through the underbrush, disrupting them. He wants to be first to spot the tracks, first to break into a run -- first. He is a hunter, he is a provider, he is a man. With a few things to prove.

The large warrior is content to keep the back with his elder. There's a squint of his dark brow when the young Heron looks back to them. That little sassy smirk. There's a glance over to his elder, this fuckin' guy kind of look. Before letting out a soft breath that is a suggestion of a laugh.

The sound of the disturbance in the brush draws his attention immediately, though he will not be the first to break into a run. He will watch the young Heron dart off before his eyes flicker over to his elder companion. One hand raising to swat the back hand amiably against his companions shoulder, gesturing towards the young brave and the quarry. It seems the large warrior is confident who actually has the best shot at taking down the beast, even if the youngin' is already hot on the trail.

The trainee -- even more junior than Heron -- pads quietly along, curious and attentive to their surroundings... but far less concerned about finding new prey than about keeping track of everyone. The healer. The feather-braided tracker. In between those two is a good place to stay, well out of the elders' way.

Number one rule: Don't fuck up.

Yes the brash young man wants to be the first to spot tracks or some thrashing bit of motion as the prey is spooked, but that's why the party has trackers, isn't it? Not that theirs have had much luck yet. Or maybe they've had a lot of luck: this path was chosen for a reason, wasn't it? They'd not have spent all this time and energy without some sign, some scent, the soft press of a track into the mud, an errant bit of fur scraped loose on a twig. Up ahead, the feather-braided tracker catches some of this little drama in one of her backward glances and can only shake her head.

Men.

Myles's look is returned in kind from the elder. Patience and prevarication; because he can hardly go over there and bring the boy in line, now, can he? He'll learn, or he'll wind up fucking dead in a proverbial ditch.

The slap to his shoulder draws his attention; but instead of reaching for his weapon, he drops to a crouch and bends to sniff the dirt. He knows the bigger man and the young braves can defend them. He is most useful, for now, in figuring out what made these tracks. After a few moments, he nods to Myles, dark eyes fixing on the bird at the water's edge. "Go with him," he murmurs. "Careful, though. That one.. I don't think it's what it seems."

"Careful." That's the echo of the elder's words from the healer. Her own hands have already made their way to her bow to unsling it from her shoulder. One of those bone arrows is pulled from the quiver and settled against it. Nothing is drawn, yet. But it is prepared to be, just in case. That long brain is tugged from her shoulder and allowed to drape down her back instead. so that nothing risks getting caught if she has to fire.

Dark eyes gaze off towards that bird, but they don't linger, know that the others are watching in. No, her eyes scan, searching for others like it.

The elk is interesting and for a very long moment the tracker debates pursuit of it. The moment is interrupted by that flicker of color though, the questionable tuft of red plumage on the crane's head, the crimson of its eye. The waver from bird into carved ceder mask and back, quick enough that she likely cannot be certain that is what she saw, not some little fit of imagination. She stays in place for a few more heartbeats, debating, a silent inner conflict that is settled ultimately by falling back to rejoin the larger group. "We could go back. There was another trail." Options must be voiced, even if that path could never be taken.

Careful.

The trainee's dark head dips in acknowledgment, those dark eyes looking, looking... and then blinking, once and then again. That crane. That maybe-not-just-crane.

As the tracker returns, the trainee sidles back and to the side, at once making room and shadowing. It's a good time to re-brace the carrying-basket now that they've stopped, with the smaller kills from earlier and what's been gathered: the fiddlehead fern tips, the mushrooms, the elderberry flowers and the dandelions. Bird eggs. The young shoots of those cattails. Stinging nettles, wrapped in the cloth used to safely gather them. All sorts of plants. It's an appropriate time, too, to acknowledge the new-raised option as well: not to speak, but to let notice be known, and listen. Just because they don't have a dramatic kill needn't mean they'll starve.

But the trainee is a trainee, not one who makes decisions: one who waits and -- here's hoping -- learns. And a large kill would certainly be kinder to their stomachs.

Few birds more aggressive about their ranges than the heron. "Go back," the youth scoffs. He will go back if he is told to -- and he will huff about it all the way, in that way of thunder in distant mountains: All noise and no fire. The forest offers plenty food; they will not sleep hungry. What he craves is the thrill -- to hunt, to prove himself, to bask in the admiration of at least one other young person present.

The old men and women, they know where they belong. The youth called Heron does not. He does not have a woman yet, nor has he earned his place -- whether as a hunter, as a warrior, as anything. He can feel those looks on his back from the older men -- he will show them, dried up old men, always sitting around talking.

He doesn't want to turn back and find the safe trail. Cranes with masks, and dripping beaks? Spirit beings. This is his chance to go from listening to stories told around campfires to being in the stories.

He runs towards it. Scold him later, grandfather.

Go with him

The large warrior doesn't hesitate. His hide shield unstrapped from his back, his axe loosed from his waist. Both in hands as the biggest of them moves with purpose after Heron. He does not race, he follows with intention. Though he certainly does not intend to fall into any trap or hazardous terrain one not looking where they leap may land into. Walking Thunder does not sprint. He speed walks.

With both axe and shield drawn, the large warrior known as Walking Thunder pursues little Heron.

Someone's grandmother tells a story like-but-not-like this, about the folly of chasing talking, taunting animals. There very much is a moment where the tracker with raven's feather's in her hair looks back, studies the darkness dropping like a blanket on the way they have come, leaving only the way they must go, the trail of mud and water and blood.

The crane and their Heron, so quick to follow in its wake.

She looks to their elder for a moment as if expecting him to change the course of this, but he's sending Walking Thunder after as well and she can but sigh, leaving off the common track followed so long so that she might go after them as well. The spear now is just a spear, less a tool for pathfinding. Perhaps a talisman of safety, an illusion of comfort, as her grip on it tightens as she passes the floating body, red leaking out into the current. On then, and on, intent on keeping eyes on Heron. On and on, until she hears the first scream and slows. Stops, even.

Dark eyes watch as the bird flies up, narrowing as slim fingers grip around that bow just a little bit tighter now. It's clear that the healer of the group doesn't trust that thing. Nor does she approve of all of this foolish chasing that seems to be going on.

Her footsteps are quick, but quiet, as she follows at a distance. She remains near the back of the group to keep space between her and that bird. Range is better. The sight of a body floating, smoke, and then hearing those screams? It's all enough to make the woman falter and truly nock an arrow now. "We should not go further."

Gutting animals (dead animals) is just part of life. This...

The trainee doesn't so much swallow as lurch; the shells in that dark hair might clack if they weren't spaced to prevent that very thing. The look after the feathered tracker is -- not hopeless, exactly; not abandoned; not quite fatalistic. Not yet, not nearly. It's clear that that these things have to be done, that the other two can't be abandoned.

And yet. That doesn't mean staying with the healer and taking those words as instructions, glancing back to assess what if anything might come up behind or beside them, isn't in order.

It's not as though the path back is going to get any lighter before the day.

The youth called Heron is first to rise to a challenge or a fight. He is brash -- but he is brash because he is in love with life, not because he wants to lose his life. The mask does not stop him, nor does the taunt; these are challenges, and he will answer the call. There will be stories told of his bravery, and a certain young trainee will look at him anew -- but then there is screaming, and there's a difference between rising to a challenge and marching blindly to your demise.

Heron stops in his track and raises a hand in warning to Walking Thunder behind him. He listens for the screams; what screams like this? Bird calls can sound like human screams; so can the cries of foxes. He does not think these are either. The youth unfastens the axe on his hip; more tool than weapon, it will nonetheless lend weight and sharp edge to a blow. His blood runs hot. There is danger, and in danger, there is glory to win.

Walking Thunder visibly winces when he finds his gait paused by Heron's gesture. As if visibly condemning himself for allowing himself to be influenced by the youth. He followed to babysit, not to follow. But perhaps its the screams that truly cause him to pause. His axe, more weapon than tool, is hefted easily in one hand. The shield of hide and bone is brought forward as if danger may be about to strike at any moment.

A low growl is the only sound that emanates from his throat. He shakes his head slowly to Heron. They should not proceed, not yet. He looks over his shoulder for the elder. For the crack-shot with the bow. Walking Thunder's reputation in battle is fearsome and respected, a reputation not earned by rushing in or taking on insurmountable odds.

He squints over his shoulder, slowly lowering into a crouch, resting on his heels as he squints forward.

Folly indeed, this. The thunder-clap, clack-clack-clack the bloodied beak as it opens and shuts, opens and shuts. The elder lifts his head slowly, his dark eyes slits in his weathered face. He did not, of course, send Walking Thunder after the boy for glory, but to keep watch over him. And now this. Now this.

We should go no further. But it's too late for that, isn't it?

They're looking to him to make the call, the one they call Broken Paw. The wolf in the skin of a man. He's kept them alive not through brashness or heroism, and not by never taking calculated risks, by because he's a canny piece of work who knows the skills of each and every one of his people. But this thing.. this is something not of this place.

He pushes to his feet, and reaches for the worn recurve strapped to his back. An arrow is collected in the same smooth motion. His voice is a low snarl when he calls out, "Heron! Get back! We watch and wait. Thunder, patience." A flash of dark eyes to the women, his eyes and ears, and then he turns his attention skyward to the crane.

Brash, not stupid. Man, not bird brain. Heron looks back one last time at the crane. He wants to take up the challenge -- but much as he hates being told what to do, he lives in a world where a man does not live to grow grey hairs if he does not grow wisdom to match. The man named Broken Paw knows what he's doing. Heron does not aspire to fight him, he aspires to become him.

He obeys and falls back. Pouting.

We should go no further. It is too late.

But there's no sense in fighting about that. Not when there is something more pressing, this strange external force. These birds, or spirits, or spirit birds as might they be. As the smoke takes on form, winged, the woman with the feathers in her hair steps back further still, tightening the little knot, the bow hunters and their trainee. Not enough for a circle, not that it matters,but she turns there so her back is to them, turned outward, spear readied. The noise the crane makes sends a shudder running down her spine, the clack of its beak felt in her bones. She watches it, waits for it to finish its swerving, circling maneuver, and when it dares to dive she turns half again, spear ready to meet it before it can bloody its beak again.

That clacking, that's warning. No more looking backwards; the trainee turns to the crane again -- and stares for a wild moment, pinned, poised -- but then there's that dive.

'Trainee' implies someone worth training, even a very little, and now the youth whirls, runs: not behind the archer but the shortest route to the trees right by the path. Into the trees, the better to use its wingspan against it, to let those solid trunks be a barrier.

(Another elk would have been imperiled by another forest, once upon a not-yet-happened time.)

An experienced warrior might have calculated escape: to attempt to evade at the very last moment and lead the creature on, to give the other warriors a better chance to strike; this one just runs.

Walking Thunder can be patient. He sinks into his heels. He can wait. He sits in a squat, sharp eyes on the monstrous birds before him. He looks to Heron. He slowly scowls as the birds take flight and dive before him. He does not spring forward, he makes no effort to run or dodge out of the way. He does not leap from his squat. One leg slowly shifts back, his knee going into the soft ground.

His painted hide shield raises up to cover his chest. It may not protect much but it can redirect a beak that may otherwise seek an eye. His shield is held aloft, his body becoming as small as possible (which is not very small) but he is a smaller target. Forcing the beasts to attack at very specific points.

His axe goes out to the side. Held there. Ready. When they do strike, he will greet them in kind.

The first thing that dawns on a youth called Heron is that there are things coming at him and his people. They are not friendly things. They are not natural things. They are probably very bad news.

The second thing that dawns on a youth called Heron is that none of them bother going for him. He's very obviously not that much of a threat to them.

His face, in that moment, is unbridled rage. He howls back his challenge and leaps at the closest.

No? That's a no for not going further and turning back then. She supposes it's a little too late for actual safety. "If we can't be safe, let us get rid of them quickly then." The Healer shifts her stance, still as careful and defensive as ever. But the bow is drawn up fully now and pulled taut. Her aim is taken for one of the birds, eyes narrowed. Once she's sure it's in sight, the arrow is released.

The tracker is startled for but a moment when her spear is deflected by painted wood, not flesh and feathers, but not deterred: a glancing hit is better than a miss and the battle has really only just begun. She turns with the momentum of her stab, following the crane as it swoops overhead, but then it's diving at their youngest member, taking her down, and an inarticulate noise of rage and worry escapes her. The blood-hungry Huk-Huk may not be satisfied with that, but neither is she. One circles in one direction, a narrower defensive pattern that seeks to shield the fallen, but there are many birds and...

...and those are definitely not birds. The first tremble of the ground under the giant's footfalls distracts her for a moment; the appearance of the terrifying creature and his awful hag are enough to make her falter and retreat a few steps, but there truly is nowhere to retreat to. "She had it right," she calls, on behalf of the shell-wearer. "We cannot fight that on even ground."

Perhaps there is a pit. But for the moment there is also a crane and that bird with the strange, crooked beak to concern herself with. The spear gives her range, but perhaps not enough. She thrusts with it anyway, aiming once again for the crane.

Crack

It's likely not a good sound. Not a good sound when it emits from one's skull. Walking Thunder's hide shield failed to protect him and a monstrous crooked beak delved into his skull. His head falls to a pillow of soft grass, blood pooling down over his head. This is also likely, not good. It takes a moment for Walking Thunder to gather his wits, what few wits may be left behind. He stirs in the grass, pushing up with his shield. Blood slides over his forehead, obscuring his vision partially.

His axe pushes up from the grass, eyes straining to find the combatants circling them. His eyes go to the tracker, calling out the disparity of the situation. He tries to find Broken Paw for some sense of direction but--

The beast is coming back. Blood that leaks over his lips is spit out as he rises to his full heigh, raising his shield and axe. HIs axe is beat against his shield once as he waits for the bird to arrive, waits to swing again.

Here is young Heron in all his splendour of youth and courage and strength.

Here is young Heron watching every monster in the area walk right past him like he's not even worth punching in the face.

Fine.

The young warrior's lip curls up and he raises his axe -- and then the trainee girl is going down and he forgets all about issuing a challenge, about jumping in their way, about screaming his rage into their faces. He dashes right past the crane, to the fallen girl, trying to shield her with his body, trying to shake life back into her. Please don't be dead! Mother earth, do not do this!

And deep down in his mind, another voice is saying, Run, you self-important peacock of a tantruming manchild, get the girl and run.

They should fall back. They should fall back and regroup; surely this is not a fight they can hope to win. Not without some trickery, and a heavy helping of luck.

With one arrow loose, and winging toward his target, the elder is already stringing another, though. That massive, wicked looking bow pulled taut, he pivots and sends that one screaming right toward the face of Baxbaxwalanuksiwe. Hoping, perhaps, to carve between his armour and score a hit hard enough to stagger him. Maybe, maybe if they can cripple these things badly enough, they can pull back without them giving chase.

They should not have gone further. The Healer had known this and should have insister further despite the darkening path behind them. Next time she knows. Will there be a next time? "Now is not the time to fall, girl. The Earth is not ready to accept you yet. You will stand and help us defeat these beasts." The words are meant for the fallen girl, that Spirit energy flowing out of her as she watches one of the enemy making it's way towards her. Her bow is put to the side as she shifts and starts trying to simply dart out of its way.

This is perhaps the one time where shaking someone actually works: perhaps it's the circumstances, his would-be shield, protective rather than posturing. Mother Earth listens (unless it's something, or someone else...) and with her and Heron's help, with the healer's demand, the trainee stands.

Only to stagger from the next buffeting, rocking under the weight not only of the bird but the basket -- the basket that hadn't sufficiently saved from the crane's first strike -- and of that earlier injury... and moreover, from the weight of those eyes. The trainee will dream of them, later. If there is a later.

Living is paramount. No, escaping. Stumbling for the trees, trying for the run, the trainee doesn't even see the healer fall.

No. No, this is not how it's supposed to go. The young man named Heron is supposed to be brave and strong, and impress the trainee very very much. She is supposed to fall into his arms and then there'll be a whole lot of sneaking around bushes and so on.

The monsters are supposed to fear him.

It finally dawns on him that maybe he should fear them.

He screams out his rage. He raises his hands. He sends the axe tool flying at the crane that threatens the woman he desires. Die, woman thief!

His second arrow fires home with a wet, sickening sound, but there's no time to watch the giant fall. No time to listen to its body break as it hits the ground. The elder turns as he hears the healer go down, and his best warrior go down, and he bares his teeth, and loads another arrow, and fires on the creature that dares to wheel back in on Walking Thunder's prone form. "Get up, get up!" he calls to the fallen. "We're not done fighting, get up."

The crane's bloody beak opens a red line across the tracker's thigh and she cries out again, pain as much as startlement, anger as much as hurt, and she wheels in a wider circle to watch it sail pass, leaving little crimson drops in the mud as it goes. But the tide has turned. The largest of the giants falls and his death scream shivers down her skin. The smaller giant levels their healer with a blow and then turns to flee. Blood. Everywhere is blood, and anger, and hunger: hunger for flesh, hunger for glory, hunger for vengeance, perhaps more righteous than the others.

The woman with the raven feathers turns again and raises her spear. Heron's axe goes flying past her, seeking the crane, but beyond the youngest warrior, the largest has fallen and she aims that way instead. The spear, but also not the spear, wrath crackling around her like the sky before a storm.

The crane is a goner

The young one is up, which is good. But there is hardly time to celebrate as the Healer takes her own blow to the chest that sends her reeling backwards as Qominoqa flees the fight. Taken down by a coward's blow! But the Healer isn't about to stay down, the Earth will not allow it. No, the breath that was taken out of her floods back in as she catches herself with a knee and one hand pressing into the ground.

The bow and arrow are dropped as the Healer decides to go with the powers of the earth instead. "Grant me your power," she pleads through hissed breath, hand extending as she aims a blast of pure flame in the Monster Raven's direction.

Another powerful blow to the head and Walking Thunder has his thunder stolen. There is a wordless gasp as he he crumples to the ground in a heap. The world is back for only a moment before his eyes flick open. Blood still in his eyes and his vision more bleary and unfocused than ever the warrior turns himself to his back, blinking through the blood and sweat to find the creature returning to finish the job.

His shield is shoved against the ground as he hurtles himself upward, flinging his axe in his good hand at the descending beast, to take its head before it takes his.

Between Broken Paw's arrow and the Tracker's lightning, the massive bird goes down. Plummets to the ground, twisted and broken under their combined assault, and without a hope of landing a blow on Walking Thunder. The elder bares his teeth and draws his blade and howls his challenge to the one who remains; it is the sound an animal would make. A deep, guttering, undulating snarl designed to intimidate. To make his enemy fear more than merely death; but the slow and torturous death by his blade that she may receive if she does not turn tail now, and flee.

Today is for hiding behind a tree, not sneaking around the bushes: a tree with a narrow window between itself and others, not only off the trail but deep enough that the beak might not reach. Leaning on it, panting, the injured trainee readies the sling and pebbles: not the mighty offensive weapons of the others, but a last-ditch defense or distraction if necessary -- especially if the crane goes after the once-toppled healer (and if her miraculous fire somehow... misfires).

Fire.

Smoke.

That's right, there was a longhouse once, invisible now from the leafy hideout. A longhouse like home.

For all his might and all his power, the axe bounces off the crane's head leaving just a scrape and a few ruffled feathers. Axe lost; opponent largely indifferent.

Why does the universe hate the young brave named Heron so much?

He doesn't know. He doesn't like that he doesn't know. Not knowing is like fuel to his fire. He will prove his worth. He will make a difference. He cries his rage out, and around him, rocks and boulders start to shake -- and then fly. One shower of rocks coming right up, and have fun trying to fly through that, feather-for-brains.

And then there is one. Just the one that led them into this trouble in the first place. As the red-headed crane turns toward the tracker she turns to face the crane, spear still in hand, that crackle of power crackling around here. At a glance she appears to brace for the final dive, ready to plunge it deep into that feathered chest, but in truth she is coiled, poised on the balls of her feet to turn away at the last moment. "No more," she tells the Huk-Huk bird. "No more will you lure the unwary, the curious." As Broken Paw howls this last challenge she lifts her chin, defiant, taunting.

And ready, confident that every other weapon is aimed this way, tracking this final flight, ready to strike when she, like smoke, just gets the hell out of the way.

There will be no where to run. There are rocks, fire and anger in the crane's path. Shoulders roll back, the Healer emboldened by the ferocity of the flame that overwhelmed her enemy just moment's ago. The Earth granted its power and she is not one to deny it what it wants. It wants these creatures gone just as much as she does.

The Elder gives a howl, and the fire once again hurls from her hand, barreling towards the enemy.

The axe swings wide, though so too does Crooked-Beak miss as Walking Thunder pulls back, ducking just in time for his companions to quickly down the beast. His eyes flicking to the woman who sends lightning at the beast. There is a moment given to considering her, eyeing her for just a second too long in the heat of battle. Hm. Then his bloody gaze swings round to find the last beast, his axe is thrown in the air, wide. Though when his hand swings it out, it remains outstretched, and the axe takes a long boomerang like loop, back towards the monstrous beast.

Quiet. So quiet. The trainee's breathing is ragged with injury and not-yet-faded adrenaline, and it too might be audible amid... amid everything. Time to take a cue from the others, the elders, when it comes to leaving the trees, much less foraging.

Perhaps there'll be a piece of the crane's mask, or whatever feather's still unbroken, or even a whistle when they're all done. The elders will decide.

The last of the spirit creatures falls and the Healer gives a firm nod. There's a glance out over the others to make sure that they are all fine. Only then does she look down towards herself where the claws raked her earlier. The Earth would not let her falter earlier, she was needed. But now? She's going to move to the tree right over here and slide right down with a sharp inhale.

She just needs to rest.

The howl from the young man named Heron is anger and frustration; rocks land, bounce off the crane, leaving little more than pulp. How he hates it! How he hates it all! Not even once did these monsters look at him. As dangerous to them, it seems, as a child still following his mother through the tall grass and the brambles. The humiliation!

Some day Heron will go on to become a wise and skilled warrior. For now, though? Wisdom comes with age and learning from your mistakes. All Heron learned today is that no one, not even the monsters, take him very seriously.

Maybe humility will be his first lesson.

Only when the crane has fallen does the tracker relax; her spear is once more a tool, here now planted in the ground so that she can lean against it and catch her breath, that she might take stock of her companions. All in better shape than their enemy. All still alive, anyway, though she spends a moment frowning at the trainee and part of a minute frowning at Walking Thunder. The healer too, assessed with a long look, but inevitably she is satisfied that everyone will at least go home.

But not before she's gone to claim one of the crane's red feathers from the ruin Heron has made.

The axe turns end over end, turning in a wide curve before flying back. And there it meets the bird, still sailing end over end before the haft connects with the hand of Walking Thunder. Blood still seeping down the sides of his head, he falls back onto his rear, one hand going out to stabilize him. Dizzy. Blinking. Walking Thunder looks blearily over to Broken Paw, to the tracker. He lets out a singular grunt before he falls to his back. Time for a rest.