ScrambledSparrow

The sky glowed a brilliant green at the horizon; the mountains rose as stark black shapes, darker than ink as they reached up to scratch the stars. It was freezing cold, literally; tiny flurries of snowflakes tumbled through the air and clung to Nettle’s fur. They lingered for a few seconds before shrinking down into tiny and perfectly round droplets resting atop his pelt. A few more stubborn flakes settled on the surface of the blanket pulled tight around his shoulders, collecting in the dips and wrinkles of the fabric. In this lighting, it almost looked like it was growing moss. He shivered and tucked himself closer to Apex, shifting his feet to give each one a brief respite from the cold stone ground. Turning his head to give his companion a sidelong glance, Nettle watched as a single snowflake landed on one of Apex’s whiskers. The smith was looking up at the sky and looking more relaxed than than he ever had in the past few months. He had been working nonstop to keep the

Queen Inula was dead, along with another gryphus from the Rainforest. It’s one of the first things Cricket learned when he landed in Goodearth. The second was that King Lahar had imprisoned a demon. It was the only thing anyone was talking about, but the details were muddy and contradicted themselves more often than not. A wingbreaker, apparently. Wingless and covered in mushrooms, fished out of the hole that had drained Goodearth’s lake. The Northern Queen had been broken out of her cell by an unknown party only to be found dumped in a ditch—not a rescue mission, as many had feared, nor a political assassination. It didn’t make any sense. Another gryphus, seemingly unrelated to any of the Northern upheaval, had been lured just outside of Goodearth to meet a grisly end. It seemed to be entirely unprovoked, unless the murderer knew something that everyone else didn’t, and left a distinct feeling of unease hanging over the marketplace. This wasn’t good. This really wasn’t good.

“C’mon, get up,” came a gruff voice from above. Hura let out a pitiful whimper and tried to hide underneath one of the fabric scraps that made up his nest— it was pulled away, stripping him of his armor just as a sharp beak prodded into his ribs. With a bleary grumble, Hura lifted his head and brought his paws to his chest, blinking the sleep from his eyes and refolding his wings. He yawned before he slowly sat up, ears askew and fur rumpled. “Hwa?” Agar stepped over him to shake Cardamine awake, startling them mid-snore. Oxalis and Crossandra were already sitting up; Cross was annoyingly awake and bouncing on her feet while Oxalis busied themself with sluggish preening. Once all four fledgelings were upright, Agar got out their plates and began setting up breakfast. Everyone got a cup of water, a disc of wattleseed bread, and six small strips of jerky. It was a bit underwhelming, but Hura would never admit to it out loud unless he wanted his ear chewed off for it. He missed his

It was too hot to play outside and Hura had spent most of the morning whining about it. Agar wasn’t budging and it wasn’t fair. Their house was only so big and Hura was bored. Even with their beds pushed against the walls, there wasn’t much space to run around. Crossandra and Cardamine had already been scolded twice for playing too roughly inside; Hura tried to play chase and got a nip to the behind for his efforts. Agar sat by the door to make sure they didn’t try to sneak out, but even then, he looked bored. He kept huffing and staring out at the sky like he was waiting for the sun to change its mind. Hura crept forward on his belly, ears pressed back and wings folded tight, giving Agar the saddest look he could muster. “Can we go outside now? Pleaaaase?” “No.” “Just for a little bit?” “No.” “Not even if we stay under the tree?” “No, Hura.” But I’m boooored, he started to say before he snapped his beak shut. He knew better than to complain about being bored to Agar. His uncle

Cricket | He/They | Hippus | Herbalist The morning is surprisingly mild. Cricket vaguely remembered the gentle patter of rainfall during the night, just enough to bring the morning temperatures down, but the ground was warm and dry by the time the sun rolled around. Not quite the same near the lakefront as it was by the Rainforest’s border, where the rain actually lingered, but it was still a night and day difference compared to the scorching summer months. Cricket huffed and plopped himself down underneath the shade of an awning, eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun. His skin prickled with sweat despite the early hour—it’s enough that he decided to briefly check himself for ants, head craned back to run his beak through his chest feathers, but no. He was just warm. He spent the better part of the morning avus-watching in the shade, exchanging pleasant nods with some of the passing hippus who caught his eye. Despite the threat of war lingering in the back of his mind like

The same day that Rancor had sped through the sky like a comet and blamed Inula for the late Queen Zinnia’s passing, everything had fallen apart. Swiftwings were dispatched to every major city, both within the kingdom and across the border, to deliver the news: the borders are closed, effective immediately. When Nettle had woken up that morning, he didn’t expect to be reconsidering everything he had ever known. He thought it would be nice to do Lichen a favor and accompany her to the palace—he certainly didn’t think he would be hearing accusations of planned assassination. It made him queasy to think about it for too long. He couldn’t imagine how Reprise must have felt. Once their only ally, the Northern Kingdom was now considered an enemy. It was unbelievable. It was unprecedented. Only months ago, he had been feeling optimistic that the war would fizzle out and disappear. And now they were horrifically outnumbered and penned in by their once-friends. He only knew a few gryphus

His house was dark and silent. Nettle was laying on his belly in his nest, tucked under enough fabric and fur scraps that he felt like he could almost disappear. Maybe if he stayed perfectly still and didn’t move, he could melt into the shadows for real. One ear twitched as he stirred back into semi-consciousness. Wingbeats. Apex was probably going to skin him alive. A bitter stab of cruel humor took root in his chest before wilting back into nothingness. His own fault, Nettle figures. He hadn’t shown up to the forge or even sent word that he was still alive after the disaster at Goodearth. “Can I sit with you?” Apex eventually asked, voice low and soft. It’s the most gentle Nettle has ever heard from him; he felt like he would be angry if he had the energy. He already knew he was a wreck. Apex didn’t have to treat him like he would break. His tongue felt like mud in his mouth, heavy and dry. Instead of a verbal reply, Apex got the smallest nod and a sniffle in acknowledgement.

Everything was dark and there were insects droning outside. Drowsy, Cricket cracked one eye open, ears raised and body still. The night air was heavy with the lingering promise of rain; the thin breeze that swept through the doorway smelled like the first murmurs of summer. Why was he awake? He kept his head down but opened both eyes, squinting at the pale lines of moonlight against the earth floor. Just as he was about to give up and roll back onto his side, there was a soft sound that caught his attention. A heavy huff of air and then a barely-there groan. Nn— nnh, g’way… “Cypress?” Cricket frowned and lifted his head, squinting for the ghostly white streaks of the broadwing’s coat to orient himself. Cypress was facing away from him, one wing splayed crookedly like he was mid-stretch. It took a moment to pick out his head from the shadows; he always looked smaller without his antlers. Cypress sighed and twitched once before making a low noise deep within his chest; Cricket

At ten years of age, Cricket thought he had already seen every inch of the Plains Kingdom. He had flown through every city and soldier’s encampment at least once during the worst of the war, sometimes within the same week. (Before his injury, his wings had never ached worse than the time he had ventured from the outpost at Cloverleaf to the wounded encampment clustered past Salt Lake.) But despite the distance and all of the strange niche environments he had stumbled across, he had never seen anything quite like this. The dragon’s eye, he had heard it called. His mouth twitched, beak clicking with amusement. Before the stone had arrived and it was still only rumors, he had thought the name was a bit dramatic. Now? He wasn’t sure what else it could possibly be. It was mesmerizingly translucent and curved in shape; it reminded Cricket of the drops of dew that would form on some of his plants in the early morning, only much much bigger and solid. The dragon’s eye was a curious thing to