Cockatrices (genus Hardstjori) are large predatory birds that were endemic to the Mossfell Islands. Likely members of the family Opisthocomidae, of which the Hoatzin is their closest relative, Cockatrices are notable for their bony wing spikes, which aid in both hunting and mating. Cockatrices are incapable of flight, and thus hunt for their prey predominately by surprising and rushing it down. Prior to the arrival of human settler on the islands at least two varieties of cockatrice were present on the island chain, the Greater and Lesser Cockatrice. As of the 1941 Attack on Christchurch Bay, only the lesser cockatrice is still present on the islands.

The Lesser Cockatrice is a descendant of hoatzin-like ancestors who made their way to the Mossfells in the Miocene. Cockatrices are characterized by their raptorial-like beaks, sharp talons, and unique bony wing spike. Adults of this species are the size of a Muscovy duck, at roughly 75 cm (29.5 in) tall. However they are much heavier, normally weighing 5 kg (11 lbs.). Lesser Cockatrice are flightless, but unlike their larger extinct relatives, they can use their keratinized wing spikes, powerful legs, and dexterous beak to climb trees and rough terrain. 

These birds retain some features similar to their hoatzin ancestors, such as colorful pigmentation on the extremities, and monogamous breeding relationships. However similarities diminish beyond that. Lesser Cockatrices are generalist omnivores which eat a diet mostly consisting of meat and insects (60%), small seeds and grains (20%), and fruits (20%). 

One of the most notable features of the Lesser Cockatrice is it's unique hunting style. The bird is an ambush-rundown predator which specializes in catching prey in both thick forest and meadows. Upon reaching its prey, it uses powerful legs to stun the quarry. It finishes by using a sharp beak to snap the prey's limbs or neck. This hunting style is similar to that of the secretary bird or road runner. The Lesser Cockatrice likely developed this tactic as a response to an increasingly rare prey - the venomous solenouses. Many species of solenouses are quickly disappearing due to  competition from introduced mice and rats, but the Cockatrice's hunting strategy remains effective against this new prey.

Lesser Cockatrices mate and remain together for a single season with the pair protecting a clutch of 1-5 eggs. Most eggs hatch at the same time, but it is not uncommon for them to hatch over the course of a week. Females and males are almost completely identical save for a small yellow patch underneath the eyes of the males. Both genders sing to each other using vocalizations not unlike that of the Northern Cardinal, but notably scragglier and deeper. Upon hatching, chicks are almost precocial, needing only two days to be able to move and operate independently. Chicks are fully mature by 8 months and hunt with the parents during that period. Parents are intensely protective of nests and rarely leave further than half a kilometer to find food. Lesser Cockatrices mate between March and October, and are able to lay two clutches within this time leading to mixed-age family groups. Parents stay together until the last chick has fledged. Mortality for chicks is around 50%, and in some locations with feral cats, pigs, and dogs can reach 90%. 

Lesser Cockatrices are one of the most adaptable of their genus and have survived waves of invasive species as well as much of the development of the islands. They can sometimes be seen rummaging near garbage bins looking for scraps. the Lesser Cockatrice is a common sight on the islands of St. James, Isle of Hens, and St. Anne. St. James ecomorphs are noted to be slightly larger. The bird is an endearing symbol of the town of Canterbury, with the town emblem displaying the bird. The future for the species however is unclear. While they have endured much, the Lesser Cockatrice population has continued to plummet. Breeding programs are ongoing, but only time will tell if the Lesser Cockatrice persists through the 21st century.

Hope for the Next Generation

Rummaging through the thick palmetto forests between the farmsteads on the southern slopes of St. James, a house mouse gorges itself on the rotting fruit around a mulberry tree. Its little paws greedily stuff the fermented fruit into furry grey cheeks. The fermenting berries denting its sense of caution, it happily saunters out into a clearing where succulent fruits gleam on dappled fallen leaves in the sunlight. Unbeknownst to the buzzed mouse, beyond the brambles two pairs of black eyes zone on their blissfully unaware target.

The foliage erupts into snapped stems and smashed berries. The little mouse does its best to flee toward the safety of a rotting log, heart racing in its tiny chest. Just as its whiskers touch against the bark a sharp talon slams upon its back. Suddenly the mouse can no longer move its back legs. Shrill squeaks burst through the underbrush only momentarily before a cruel beak snaps it's neck.

The predator drops her kill with a thud on the dappled forest floor. She is a Lesser Cockatrice, Hardstjori caputrubum, and she is eager to feed the last of her brood. Behind her the little one appears. Only two days old, the chick already sports a sinister beak which it uses to dig into the soft tissue around the mouse's eyes.

***

The mother watches her little one feast on the mouse. After the chick is done she gulps the rest of the mouse whole, for herself and to regurgitate to her mate. As the midday sun shines, she returns to her nest where her mate awaits upon two delicate eggs. They chirp at each other as their chick returns to the warm safety of the nest. The eggs are nearly ready to hatch. The two parents do not understand how crucial their two eggs are to the future of their species, but in the moment all they know is to take care of their fuzzy and fussy chick.

The greater cockatrice was the largest member of the genus Hardstjori, and the largest avian predator on the Mossfell archipelago. With males standing at 0.91 meters (3 feet) tall and weighing up to 36.29 kg (80 lbs.), the greater cockatrice was considered the apex terrestrial predator on its home: The Isle of Hens. Females were smaller, generally reaching heights of 0.76 meters (2.5 feet) and weighing up to 30.84 kg (68 lbs.). 

The greater cockatrice was an group ambush predator, relying on the strategy of two to four birds to surprise and chase down prey in the forests on the Isle of Hens. Once captured, the greater cockatrice would use it's raptorial beak, talons, and bony wing spike to dispatch prey. It consumed a diet mainly consisting of meat, but would supplement the rest with fruit and seeds.

The greater cockatrice demonstrated a more exaggerated sexual selection than its smaller relatives on St. James. Males would display a vibrant yellow belly and tail, red beaks and legs, along with iridescent green feathers to woo females. Females were drably adorned in brown and grey feathers. 

Each year during the winter months, hormonal shifts in males would cause belly feathers to grow more vibrant and females to wander the island in groups. Males would prepare a nest with small interesting items to present to females, much like a primitive bower. Once the nests was completed, males would call out to females for inspection. If females determined a male was suitable, then up to three females would mate with a male and remain in his territory. The harem would then spend the year hunting, taking care of young, and defending their territory until the next breeding season. Males in particular would spend the greatest time defending nests, using their size to intimidate intruders. Females spent most of their time hunting and would return to the nest with chunks of meat or fruit to present to the male. Once a year, 2-4 eggs would be laid by females in the same nest. Chicks were born precocial and would become independent by 8 months, later they would become mature by 2 years.

In Viardrmen folklore, the greater cockatrice was both respected as a stalwart protector of its family and feared as a snatcher of children. Indeed, using cooperative strategies, groups could take down prey as large as cattle. During the later waves of British and American colonization, the greater cockatrice was hunted mercilessly due to the threat it posed to livestock and children. At many times, bounties were placed on individuals and their nests. Males were also hunted for their iridescent belly feathers. By the 20th century, the greater cockatrice was limited to the most impassible areas of mangrove and swampland on the south parts of the Isle of Hens. 

By 1920 it was speculated that only 7 individuals remained in the swamps on the Isle of Hens and several expeditions were sent by the Audubon society to capture and breed the birds before their extinction. All were unsuccessful until 1930 when the last male and female specimen were captured and brought to Canterbury Zoological Park on St. James island. The female unfortunately ingested shards of glass and died of internal bleeding shortly after arrival. The male, nicknamed Lonely Luciano, would spend his remaining years in a concrete enclosure, calling out each winter for mates that would never come. Eventually Lonely Luciano would die on December 11th, 1941 during the attack on Christchurch bay.

Luciano's Bitter End

The creature stared blankly toward the concrete corner of its cell. A dollop of frozen water from a bare branch splashed onto its head and it ruffled its feathers in annoyance. The creature torturously rose from the ground on old, aching talons so unused to the hard and unforgiving cement floors. It isn't a sapient animal capable of knowing where it is, but the creature knew that its current home is nothing like the lush forests of its earlier years. This box of stone, the cold meat that is dropped in, the scrawny rodents that scurry along - all of those create a feeling in the creature that is painfully human - one of sorrow.

The creature retreated beneath a small wooden platform and preened its once lustrous yellow feathers. It remembered a better time. Once it was free in the forest. It remembered the thrill of hunting prey in the underbrush. It remembered the exhilaration of fighting off another male for dominance. It remembered the warmth of its bonded pair, and the tenderness it felt for the tiny eggs she laid. The creature tended to his nest, adorned with what special things it found in its box: an odd shiny rock, a scrap of mouse fur, a piece of clear un-melting ice. He readied the nest for the mating season and for a mate that would never come.

The creature emerged preened and handsome. He stepped out and puffed up his yellow chest, letting out a melodic series of chirps and whistles into the steel-gray sky. Initially, nothing but silence pierced the December morning but suddenly a clamorous sound. Something more terrible than a rockslide, something more terrible than the screeching of hundreds of its prey. Looking up to the sky he saw giant birds screeching as they swooped by. Before he could retreat back into his nest the ground shook and the horrible sound of tons of rock grinding upon itself echoed through the box. The old male felt terror sink into the bottom of its heart. Blood roared in his eardrums and it felt as if the earth itself would swallow him whole.

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Richard Weissman, head keeper at the Canterbury Zoo peered into the smoldering rubble that was once the entrance. The United States had suffered a black eye in the west just three days prior and now a gut punch in the east. The zoo was located next to the US Navy docks on the island and due to the proximity suffered greatly.

The air smelled foul with spilled gasoline, dust, and viscera. Coughing as he clambered over the ruin, he spotted Nikomos screeching as they scurried from a blasted cage, some of their compatriots just as obliterated as the steel bars. Richard felt pangs of sorrow at the poor animals and their wretched fear. A feeling he knew too well after seeing the Christchurch bay aflame. A few yards ahead he peered into a small concrete enclosure. In it lay a dusted, crumpled form. Yellow feathers splayed like a torn dandelion across the cage. He rushed to the entrance and began to fondle the form looking for life - alas to no avail. What had once appeared a regal, powerful, and imposing creature now felt as limp, delicate, and tattered as an old dishrag. Lonely Luciano, last of his kind, had perished. His heart unable to take the sheer terror of his final moments.