Make Your Heart a Compass

NOITCERRU The birdman did not expect his aim to fly so true. To hit the legs, perhaps - a fetlock, or if he was lucky a rib. Some contact would be better than none. The stick was not thrown with too much force, not meant to seriously injure; Noitcerru was at a bad angle, and throwing was ungainly anyway. But a childish delight crossed his features as the stick hit its target, an infectious grin slipping over his face like a slick of oil. He couldn’t have got a better reaction! The male was tossing and turning and looking around  as though expecting another assault, and if he had had another stick Noitcerru might’ve considered it. As it was he watched with amusement, not moving an inch as the stallion realised he was not alone. It was comic - more than that, it was downright hilarious. It was time to put him out of his misery. He chattered, short sharp chirps ringing with laughter like sleigh bells - like jabs in the silence, needle-knifepoints serrating against the deep growl of the other male. His own wings grew wider like a banner flying free, pinions expanding to their full wingspan and propelling him out of the undergrowth and out from cover with all the ease of a stallion who had spent his life in flight and flight alone.  Off the edge of the cliff, suspended with stable beats and treading the air with his withered legs, he could not be touched by any hoofed on the ground - and he knew it. But this horse was not just a hoofed, and agile wings were pinned to his back just as they were to Noitcerru. He kept his distance, aware that this individual could follow him. Pfft. Indignation rose in his throat like bile. He could follow - he could certainly try. But being caught was quite a different matter, and it was there that he knew his talents lay. The thought invited something young and boyish in him, and the temptation of making life even more difficult for this man for his own amusement, teasing at his anger and poking at his irritation and prompting a chase, glimmered in his mind, tempting every part of him that was young and loved the thrill of the pursuit - particularly one he thought he’d win.   But even he had his limits, and he wanted to savour this. He looked down at the male with barely concealed amusement. He was on edge, every muscle tense; the birdman could see that from here. His quick reaction was the lightning-fast, electric response of pure instinct and nerves - and perhaps he would have felt bad about that, but he was not the sort to linger on the past nor to regret, if he ever knew how to - or if he’d ever learnt that one had to regret, or that time went in a straight line. But he still looked at this male with curiosity - with the same curiosity that came with everything. It would be a shame, he decided, for this stranger to get too close to the cliff. He didn’t have malicious intent, after all. Intent, certainly, but not…not of that kind. The male was like the very reflection of Noitcerru - not in similarity, but in sheer and utter difference. Black all over, it was almost as if his shadow had come to life. Or so Noitcerru thought, looking at this male with all of the curiosity he had for those who could walk. This stallion could fly just as much as he could - that was obvious - but it was that other side that so fascinated him, the physical and the grounded amongst the intellectual and the upper echelons. He was still looking at the male as he spoke. "Did I startle? You?"  He spoke with a foreign inflection - but he lacked the hesitation of a beginner, hurtling himself into the language and frankly not caring if he didn’t pronounce anything oddly. His accent was blended with several, twisting and turning as he spoke like a living creature through his speech; a mesh of many accents in one, borrowed inflection from one and nicking stress from another, staggering through the common tongue of the Rift - and of the Helovians, too. Whether this stallion was one or the other Noitcerru could not yet tell - not that it changed anything. They were all the same, were they not? And still could be hit with sticks. Speaking of which…he spoke again, his words, of course, undercut with wicked humour. "You should not throw anything that should not come back. All comes back in the end. Don’t you? Think?" The birdman chirruped brightly, apparently very pleased with himself - or at least thinking he was utterly hilarious. In his mind this male was practically asking for it. "Don’t want anything. Anything. What would I want?" He turned his head on one side quizzically, feigning confusion - until he came up with a smug answer. "More sticks?" "Talk." @Virga run boy run this world is not made for you

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No it's alright, sorry for the delay!