HOLD ME TIGHT OR DON'T;

Oh, my tongue's the only muscle in my body that works harder than my heart He was falling. Falling. Somewhere, dimly, the thought registered: It doesn’t matter. Water on his wings. (falling) Each breath thick and damp as it dragged into tired lungs. (falling) The repeated cry of his overtaxed muscles. (falling) Tree branch. It struck suddenly: a sharp white pain to the right side of his head. He realized two things: one, he was upside-down; two, he was quite near the ground. Three things, actually, because the third was this: he was falling, and if he kept falling he was probably going to die. Fortunately, reflex acted before any of these realizations had even penetrated the dense haze of his thoughts. His wings snapped out. It hurt in a deep, inescapable way. A soft sound came up out of his chest. It was lost in the noise of collision with subsequent branches: down, down, down snapping and crackling like a very confused firework. Streaks and pinpoints of pain all across his body. His wings flapped. His legs kicked. Somehow, he righted himself. Conscious thought came back online. He fell. It was an interminable distance to the ground. Darkness; branches; wet leaves. Everywhere, the smell of damp earth and something else, something old and unidentifiable. It teased at his thoughts, distracting just enough to keep him plummeting, a rock shaped like a horse shaped like a falcon. Or maybe the other way around. He thought: the trees in this place must be very tall. Then the ground said hello. All the breath went out of him at once. He landed on his sternum, hard, and wet leaves embedded themselves permanently into his knees. His wings flared helplessly out to either side of him, fading rays of golden light as the rain drove them down, down, into the mud. He tried to breathe and could not breathe. He tried to breathe and could not breathe. Then, finally, his head jerked up and his lungs filled with the sodden air. Again. Again. “Fuck,” he coughed, and staggered to his feet. The rain fell. Even through the branches (through the hole he’d left in the branches) the rain fell. Cold sheets dropping from a dark heaven. It plastered his thick mane to his neck, to his face, so he blinked at an abbreviated view of the forest: shadows and trees and an irritating amount of his own hair. He shook his head. Still focused on getting air into his lungs. Wet wings shivered, uselessly extended, on the ground to either side. He knew this: he wasn’t going back up.

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Stuff!:

Enchanted Items:
Retractable Armor: In use, covers his head, neck, sides, and tops of his wings. Black metal, sharp and angular, with spurs above the wing joints and along the backs of his hind legs. Surprisingly light. Inert, it folds into a series of innocuous accessories. <- Can the Rift please just eat this? I don't want to deal with it right now.

Companion:
Auga, common raven, female, missing her right eye