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Old 04-13-2004, 06:01 PM   #165
piosenniel
Desultory Dwimmerlaik
 
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Rôg


Where does the old fool think he’s going? Surely he can’t be thinking he’ll hoof it into the camp . . . the stick is hardly a disguise . . . and to be quite honest, with his hair all awry from sleep and blowing in the breeze, he looks half mad . . .

Aiwendil had grabbed a small leather pouch and some old walking stick and tottered over a small rise, dropping for a moment from the little bird’s sight. Rôg rose into the air and flew after him.

Ah, good! He hasn’t gone far . . . in fact, he’s stopped . . .

Landing on a thin twig of a nearby leafless thorn bush, Rôg cocked his head to one side and watched as the man stood staring at the distant camp. His face had gone soft, unfocused, and he seemed to be listening to something. Rôg turned one feathered ear and then the other in the direction of the camp; he could hear nothing other than the night’s breeze rattling the little bush he’d perched on. He was about to fly to his companion's shoulder, to tell him to come back – they’d figure something out to get him into the Eagle camp.

And then the old man sat down. Planting his scrawny haunches firmly in the sand, Aiwendil had gathered his stick and pouch onto his lap and hunched over them. A look of pained concentration played on his face in the moonlight for the briefest of moments, making Rôg wonder if he had been overcome with some illness.

Fur and feathers! The strain of the journey has been too much for him . . . add to that the news I blurted out . . . it’s knocked him over the edge to be sure . . . This stream of thoughts dissolved in a sudden shimmer that blurred the little bird’s eyes.

Aiwendil had disappeared!

Rôg flapped frantically to where the old man had been seated. Save for the shallow indent in the sand where Aiwendil had sat down, there was no sign of him. And then, a little way in the distance came a tiny voice . . . calling to him . . .

~*~

‘And just what have you done with my companion!’

Rôg’s words came out slightly muffled. He had the moth gently, but quite firmly, secured in his beak, his question leaking out round the fuzzy torso of the small brown insect. He had flown back to the thorn bush and was threatening to impale the protesting moth if the truth were not forthcoming.

‘Well?’ he prompted, joggling the moth a bit as if to shake the answer from him.

A stream of gruff invective preceded not an explanation but a command.

‘You featherbrained skinchanger!’ ‘Put me down, now!’

The moth’s antennae twitched irritably as the bird sat him on a twig. ‘Nothing’s been done to your companion!’ The little brown moth peered up at his suspicious captor and sighed. ‘I’m right here. And time’s wasting away for the clan leader you spoke of while you question me.’

Rôg stumbled backward, fluttering his wings to keep himself from falling off the branch. ‘A maenwaith!’ he spluttered. ‘All this time you remained hidden; you never told me?!’ He looked down his beak at the insect. ‘And just what clan are you from?’

‘We don’t have time for answers right now, Rôg. The story is long . . . and . . . complicated. It can wait for a later time.’ Aiwendil fluttered his wings in preparation to fly off. One had been crumpled slightly, when Rôg had interrogated him, causing him to fly crazy spirals in the breeze as he took off.

The bird shook his head at the erratic, ineffective pattern and launched himself after the old man. One small foot reached out as he flew over him and enclosed the moth in a taloned cage.

‘Just hang on . . . I’ll get us there.’

Aiwendil, being a captive audience, had to endure the endless string of questions the little bird threw at him. Answers from the moth were not forthcoming. And it was with relief that he finally crawled from the Bee-eater’s grasp as they landed on the clan leader’s tent.

‘Down there,’ whispered Rôg, poking his beak into the smokehole. ‘Can you see her?’ he went on, as the moth peered over the rim of fabric . . .

Last edited by piosenniel; 04-14-2004 at 02:29 AM.
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