sympathy for the devil

Though the great big pink buzzards were gathered in their innumerable mass in the shallows of the murky pool, Ravache’s attention was stolen solely by the robust feathered beasts that strolled along the low grasses at the edge. The great bustards, having gained his focus from the moment they flew in, hobbled their way through the golden brush, plucking at dirt and pecking amongst each other. His instinctual drive pulled him into their orbit, hunkered along the cover of the eastern veld.

He had no word for them – other than birds, pompous things, but delighted himself to see that they did not flit and flutter off to the sky when startled like their lighter-bodiced cousins that housed themselves in the forest. Instead they chased each other on their twiggy feet or strutted between grazing, pale necks carried high above their ruddy plume.

Then again, they hadn’t been presented with any real danger outside of themselves or their shadow, or the scuttle of a rat as it ran under their feet.

The chance that they would take flight into the intangible was always a risk at the back of his mind as he watched them silhouetted against the hazy dusk-gold of the grass-haired horizon. While they squabbled amongst each other, he slid out from under the shadows of the tapering jungle fringe and into the wind-blown copper of the plains. All the while, his eyes shifted from one bird to the next, training the opportunist mind to the patterns of prey.

The passage of time is such an endlessly fascinating thing. Invisible and impalpable, and yet powerful enough to bend the world itself to its very whims. Cereza has yet to solve the complicated mysteries such as why the seasons had to change or why she had to wait to be 'grown-up' - but grow she does. And as her boundless curiosity about the world grows alongside her, it soon becomes clear that even the vast expanse of the jungle would be not be a big enough place to contain her.

But that's merely an issue for parents to worry about. Cereza certainly has no qualms about poking a toe out from the jungle's shadowed edges to explore the weirdly treeless land that lied beyond.

Onwards to new mysteries! Immediately starting with 'what is all that squawking about?'

Thus, @Ravache is not the only youth tucked away in the spaces within trailing leaves and waving grass, watching spellbound as the delightfully bizarre-looking...birds(?) milled about their own little pond. Though the girl's enchantment is, perhaps, not as rooted in pragmatism as his. She just rather likes the bright color of their fluffy plumage, the juxtaposition of those elegantly curved necks and regal carriages set above an awkward forest of skinny legs bringing a charmed smile to Cereza's features as she bit down on her bubbling laughter. She doesn't want to scare them into flying off just yet.

...Could they even fly?

Before she had a chance to truly ponder that mystery, her attention would be snagged by a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye, near-imperceptible if only she wasn't so used to playing hide-and-seek with her more darkly-colored siblings in the jungle's deepest depths. There is a boy there, she thinks, around her own size. The sight brings a sharp frown to her lips, for his movements strongly remind her of the occasions she's snuck out to watch her mothers hunt.

The thought of such pretty, pink things being hurt is one she rather dislikes, and Cereza would quickly cast her gaze about in search of...something. Ah, there! Scooping up a rather large stone in the curve of her paw, the girl would fling as close to the center of the crowded pond as she could manage, hoping now that the noise would startle them. Warn them.

code by scorpixia♡︎

sympathy for the devil

Ravache paid no mind to the long-necked buffoons at the center of the pond. Their squawking, honking madness was too much of a deterrence from the smaller, seemingly less agile blunderers in the brush. Besides this, their height would reveal him too quickly, and he was not willing to discover just how deep that pond got, or how long their legs actually were. At least with the bustards, he could see them in their entirety: clumsy looking things, quiet and fussing in the weeds. Consumed with pecking, preening, puffing. Their stoic existence worked away at his young impatience, in truth.

Every once in a while one would make a grand sweep in his direction. He would hunker down, coiled like a spring, but then it would arc an angle away – perhaps worth chasing, worth catching, but he was too unsure yet. Haunted by the disjointed ill-graces of his lesser youth, the mass of his paws and the gangliness of his legs. He worked hard to make up for his downfalls, but not quite confident enough to strike. Not unless they wandered right up to his nose.

For a moment, he thought it was possible. One, chased by another, zigged and zagged under assault, too distracted by its rival to discern grass from cub, and made a beeline that angled just perfectly that it would pass right by his right. Ravache hunkered once more, spooled all his might into his hind legs, grit his forepaws deep in the earth and readied the swing of his tail behind him for balance. His heart hammered, his pupils opening their blackness into bloodlight—-

And a shadow burst overhead, startling him from his concentration at the worst of times.

The dollop of its sound plunged into the pond, scattering the pink-fringed beasts from their solitude. All in a flutter of feathers and fluff they rose into the sky with utter pandemonium, their odd-eyes awash with terror. He leapt up, incensed by the suddenness of it all, but it was too late. The bustards had been startled as well, and too unfortunately far faster than he had expected them to be. He chased after the closest one, but all in vain. It huffed and shot out from before him, sending its friends on their heels, and Ravache came to a skid stop as they all disappeared into the distant brush.

He turned, snarling, sure that stones did not just fall from the sky. Ice stones, maybe. But when those fell, they fell in many – and hard, and painfully, but not one solitary ball.

There.

Some big crétin also hiding in the grasses, either a fool or an instigator, and in his experiences clinging only to what he knew of his sisters, he ventured to assume they were both. No doubt chuckling to herself or amazed by the spectacle of flight, head in the clouds. Children. Nevermind he, too, was a child. "Pourquoi avez-vous fait cela?" he clacked angrily to her, the ruffed hackle-furs along his spine turned to needles on end. "J’étais à la chasse!" Or at least, attempting to.

French: Why did you do that? / I was hunting!

@Cereza