The Earthen Eagle

Some parts of the globe are, even for the standards of the new world, completely unrecognizable. Sundaland is perhaps the ultimate example of this, with its semi-arid grasslands in place of oceans and mountains in place of tropical islands. These utterly changed areas more often occur on its western shore, where rainfall is scarcer. One such area is here, in the grassland that surrounds and has replaced the Gulf of Thailand. It is home to a well-vegetated expanse of shrubs and grasses which are all subject to the ebb and flow of yearly rains, inevitably producing deep gullies. When the rainy season hits, the heavy rainfall fills the seasonal creeks beyond their limit, tearing at soil and stone as water barrels down to the sea or to saline lakes. As the creeks are torn, they also deposit sediment at slower parts of the waterway, causing them to twist and writhe slowly over the surface. A comfortable stroll into one of these gullies during the dry season may reveal not only what lives here now, but also a look into the region's past. With much luck, one may find a shell or bone in the strata, formed of solid rock. Maybe some of these bones can be formed into a bird's shape, a strange eagle of the new world's youth.

This eagle was a predator of a damaged landscape. The region at the time was an irregularly vegetated expanse, shrubs and grasses mixed with bare soil, for the sea was here only a few millennia ago. Though the cataclysm is beyond the memory of this young species, it has everything to do with why they are here. During the age of death, the sea drew back, large herbivores died, their predators following. Yet, one creature prevailed. The golden eagle, a giant among the survivors and perhaps the sole terrestrial apex predator left behind, found a way to break the rules. Though shrunk and split into miscellaneous small ranges, their world-reigning days behind them, they had a whole buffet of animals to eat, with not one in Sundaland too big for their talons. And so they spread, and grew, and here produced a specialist of sorts, abandoning the familiar sky.

Tan with ruddy brown spots, earthen eagles (Aquila barosoma) roamed the land, the air only an afterthought. They were heavy, built more like turkeys than eagles. Their legs were long, offering a longer stride, as well as a taller stance to view prey through the relatively sparse grass. Though strongly preferring to run, they could fly, and this combination made them quite agile. Instead of a straight dash, earthen eagles would jump about as they weaved along the ground, turning corners and leaping up and down obstacles with help from their wings. Their giant claws were a hindrance to running, but a slapdash solution had appeared: Their toe pads were large and fatty, forcing the talons slightly above the ground to prevent wear. Their chases, when successful, ended familiarly, with a two-legged grapple and quick work with their sharp beak. Their size and skill allowed them to take anything that opportunity allowed, from large insects to the young of those massive hairy beasts that eventually came from the north.

Earthen eagles nested on the bare ground, though occasionally in trees and on rocky outcrops. A male and female pair, having successfully courted each other, would either build a nest or find one already built, then remain with that nest for breeding season after breeding season. These nests could grow monstrously over the years, and when abandoned, served as a hovel for small mammals and reptiles. One of their nests would have been easily spotted over a great distance, speckling the landscape.

As fate would have it, their contribution to the scenery would not last. As the millennia ticked by, the barren land gave way to more lifeforms, each more and more suited to the new world. The flora rebounded, as followed the fauna, and with that, competition. The four-legged beasts, mouths with glistening teeth, exploded from their refugia. They knew the land well and were accustomed to the flesh of its animals, hence the order they all shared: Carnivora. Earthen eagles had the edge at first, so large and so plentiful, but that only granted them some time. The newcomers knew how to end a chase with a bite, then tear into the body to satiate themselves. The eagles, meanwhile, had no great bite, and their talons, while devastating from the air, were a pain on the ground. Their strides were more costly, their claws dulled by walking alone, and their quick adaptations, while helpful, were not a match against millions of years of experience. As the centuries passed, their numbers shrank, and those of their enemies grew, and the eagles found their opportunities closing. Soon the largest predators were mammalian again, the niches left and right filling with them, pushing the eagles out. Many of these mammals even committed to direct action, seeking out eagle eggs or chicks to eat.

Returning to the air would have been an option if it weren't for their close cousins. Their sister eagles' aerial hunting strategy was far superior to anything a clumsy earthen eagle could muster, and their acrobatic courting was far too daunting to produce many hybrids, though viable the hybrids were. For a time, the remaining earthen eagles found a way by, clinging to the rocky outcrops of Sumatra far to the west, their eagle-eyes from this waypoint proving useful. However, it was not to last. Come 700 thousand years hence, the earthen eagles were gone. 

This is part of the process of evolution. New branches sprout every which way when the opportunity arises, and with time and optimization, some prevail. However, some, outshaded by their sister branches and those of other trees, wither away. Even now, however, over a million years later, these relics of the past can still be seen via a lucky stroll through an arroyo.