Buoyant are her golden wings

Though hungry, he has no matter to attend more urgent than his own appearance and plants his lithe body upon that fringe before the glade. The male, in his prime and without any sense of fear, busies himself properly and forgets that strange creatures loiter, their mumbling voice soon lost to the rhythm of his own rising pulse.

He cranes backwards on the spot, pale blue tongue darting out as his chin sweeps by his tail and he licks it, pinning each ruffled quill back into line with saliva. He works vigorously, fastidiously, for others like he, roam the same forest and his task is to present a better, bright and well-kept display in order to ward them away. He is proud of his mate, the litter of four whom they raise, and has not the interest in losing them for the sake of such mistakes.

When he is certain the feathers are fine, he views them thoroughly, carefully, with a steady, meticulous eye, the male turns back around and begins to bathe his fur. He starts with his left fore paw, licking it in short, sharp bursts, until the mud which has collected between his toes has been cleansed - then he begins on the arm…

the Rift
what lies beneath

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