» Visions from a Past World

Typhoons stir up insensitive gales which fluctuate beneath me; their severe flux of speed/direction hamper my aptitude to stay immobile above that unfledged trio. Pinions hammer downwards, groaning their frustration toward being compelled by our unfortunate heist to press onward. Regretfully, the swimmers would have to manage alone. Just as mobility is purchased, another pillar of icy, brackish water catapults from the ocean floor! Bringing a deluge of salty rain that spills upon my shuddering, hyper-sensitized meat. Tendrils of clumped hair are sucked aside from my steaming neck while these arms rotate and broadside. Painted columns fold against their prickling sanctuary. Eyelids narrow, shielding their iris from yon storm. My silvery collar pulses quietly on the backburner; anticipating, straining for the call to arms. In a flash of wild logic (and uncertainty as to WHOM our puppeteer was) my wary instinct considers it…nar...summoning the armor would apply extra weight to our rapid flight, tarnish my ability to maneuver the sky AND possibly morph me into an iron clad beacon of potential for conducting electricity. Through the haze of divine tears, my wavering focus glimpses the tri-colored girl bee-lining toward our beach. From afar, her obsidian feathers appear adequately ruffled by those conflicting gusts of air (likely saturated as well) but possibly unharmed. …shrinking relief dares to ease my remorseful spirit fractionally from the bleak haven of confused anger and disappointment... Forelegs jut out as the beach looms hither; never before have I been so readily grateful of the sight of those waterlogged grains. Churning daggers touch down alongside Zahra. But that smooth canter is stunted by digging, splashing hindtoes. Shivering flanks become as stone while they press into the squishy loam and expertly carry the front half of my body upward into a shallow rear. Forelegs dance reflectively, pivoting acutely (and in one motion) until my entirety is sideways upon that narrow strip of elevated surf. Honeyed toes drop solidly upon the ground, sinking instantly. Arid, greygreen water licks wickedly against pasterns, their foaming embrace taunts between cannons.   The base of my muzzle extends, searching for her with these dripping nostrils sucking hard on the humid tit. “Are you hurt!?” A rasping, hoarse probe for hint of aliment. Optics scan, hunting for verification; wings flex inward, loosely hanging from their muggy, drizzled sheath.

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