My comrades fell like a strange rain from a bright sky far too blue and fair for the horrors of that day. The behemoth overhead bellowed rapaciously as he loosed another billow of noxious green fumes.

"This is useless!" shouted Quierak. "Fall back and evacuate! Now!" he added forcefully. There was no time for warriors' pride. A flock of our battle-bloodied kin pelted toward our village.

"Cirrak, I'll handle this!" I called out as my brother marshaled his cast to launch diversionary tactics, buying our families in the eyrie a little time. "Get Kri out of here!" At the mention of his daughter's name, Cirrak whirled into their air and launched himself in the direction of our family's nest. As he hurtled by, our outstretched hands met for the briefest instant. To this day, I pray it was goodbye enough. I turned then to the cast and gave a nod. A dozen warriors besides myself lifted into the wind. We knew what we had to do.

We swarmed the dragon, as much as 13 Aarakocrans can, and streaked through the air around him in all directions. Blazes of red and orange; smears of gray and black; blurs of copper and pale brown weaved between the dragon's legs, over and under his body, and around his massive head. We dipped and dodged poison plumes and gnashing teeth, cracking through the air like whips of talons and battle screeches. It was only slightly less effective than our previous attacks. Our warriors dropped from the air in varying states of disintegration as the dragon's breath coalesced around them. There was no path to survival, let alone victory.

"Retreat!" I crowed over the din. The pitiful few of us still in the air plunged toward the eyrie and hoisted hatchlings, fledglings, and elders to safety. I pelted to my family's nest in the mountainside, following the panicked flight path of my brother through a Cirrak-sized hole in the woven walls of our nest. I frantically poked my head into each cavern and called out the names of my kin. Kri's terrified chirp cut the eerie stillness. I hurried toward her and found Cirrak, silent and unmoving on the floor.

His face was half-dissolved and steaming wafts of green vapor. His beak clung limply to the bone, like a lukewarm slice of cheddar, rubbery and flimsy. For the first time since the dragon's shadow fell over us that morning, I froze. I wanted to un-recognize him. He couldn't be Cirrak. He couldn't be my brother, my nestmate, laying there. If he was then I would have to give it up right then. I would have to lay down beside him and wait for the dragon's gaseous grace. Kri sobbed and wailed for her mother. It couldn't be Cirrak. And so it wasn't.

In the eastern chamber, where the nest was always warmest, Kri trembled and cried. Despite my blood-soaked trunks and adrenaline drenched nerves, I did my best to steady myself as I reached for her. "Oh, Junnen," I cooed softly. She turned her little golden head and, as her eyes met mine, all the chaos melted away. There were only her glittering amber eyes and her sweet hatchling peep calling out tearfully, "Uncle Quirk!" And then, the sky caved in.

The braided branches forming the walls, between which generations of my father's kin had roosted, cracked open like a great walnut between the dragon's scything claws. Kri cowered beneath its gaze. The moss lining the walls; the gathering gusts of poison breath, the dragon looming and sneering above: everything was green. My ears rang as I launched forth, making a torpedo of myself and praying in those impossible seconds that I could spiral us both away from this awful verdigris vision. I cradled my precious niece in my arms and enveloped us in a winged shell as we twisted between the scaly green pillars of the dragon's legs, trailed by a stream of poison mist. I felt it singeing my tail feathers, licking at my talons. I'm not fast enough.

A few feet below, the rubble of our eyrie piled as high as the great trees and cliff sides that had supported it. I did the only thing I could have done. With the billowing haze building steadily behind us, I took one last glance at Kri. As I tilted her back to look in her eyes, and blistering puffs of gas crawled over my skin, I felt none of it. For in my arms, perfect and golden as ever, Kri was already cold. There was neither a scrape nor a scratch, nor even the jaundice of asphyxiation. Fear alone had taken her. Gingerly, in those final seconds, I let her fall from my grasp into the remains of our village. If she must go, then let her go in the comfort of soft moss and down feathers. Let her go in one piece. And I turned to face my death.

Days later, I don't know how many, I awoke in a heap atop a disheveled haystack. Lush green grass, knee high and swaying in the wind, sprawled in all directions. In the distance, an outbuilding of some kind stood against the light of sunrise. I took stock of my body. I had all my limbs and all my talons; my beak was firmly attached, albeit with a jagged chip missing on one side; and but for a few nasty scars where the poison had brushed my flesh, I was in one piece. Something was jabbing between my shoulders, though. 

It took several minutes to struggle to my feet. Every muscle, bone, and joint protested hotly and I groaned with the effort. After pausing to let the stars clear from my dizzy periphery, I stumbled toward the outbuilding, my only hope for shelter just then. The something was still jabbing me. I stretched my wings, thinking that would dislodge the culprit, or tried to. They wouldn't move. I ignored the panic in the pit of my stomach. Shock, that's all. I'm in shock.

When I came into the nearby town, a place called Karak, people stared. I looked a mess with my tattered, bloodied clothes, busted up wings, and chipped beak. I suspect I may be the first Aarakocra they'd ever seen. In time, I learned the common tongue and tried to build a life for myself. Most of my wounds healed, but to my eternal shame my wings remained crippled. They were a constant, aching burden. 

I scraped by doing odd jobs and trading favors with the locals. One evening, I wandered into a tavern to wet my beak. Ale in hand, I picked out an empty table in a dark back corner where I hoped I wouldn’t be bothered. I soon got the sense that this was a fool’s hope. A Tiefling woman sat at the bar staring at me, making no effort to hide it. She had pinkish, almost red skin and eyes like ebony oil slicks. Her horns were impressive. They curved upward near the tips, suggesting that if they were any longer, they may curl like a ram's horns. An enormous creature with jaundiced skin and crimson eyes stood menacingly beside her. It had ridges of bone along its shoulders and forearms. Perhaps she had never seen one of my kind. That was usually why people stared. I nodded and fluttered my fingers in a halfhearted wave. She stood and laid a hand over the red-eyed creature’s forearm. It nodded and took her seat at the bar. Its gaze never wavered from my table as the Tiefling strode confidently across the taproom.

"Good evening. May I join you?" she said in a light, airy voice.

“Uh, sure,” I replied, intrigued. I gestured to the chair across from myself. She sat and smiled, revealing porcelain fangs behind her full, charcoal black lips. “What can I do for you?”

The Tiefling explained that she and her gargantuan associate had seen me around and had been hoping to have a chat. 

"I am someone who deals with a lot of prejudice. I'm sure you can understand," she said. I nodded. "The same can be said for my associate over there," she gestured to her man at the bar. "As a result, my inn is the frequent target of bigoted attacks. Surdrim," she pointed again to her colossal companion, "acts as my bodyguard and trusted friend." 

Across the room, Surdrim grunted and cracked his knuckles. Even from the corner, the sound was like granite chunks clacking against each other. 

"And so I’ve been on the hunt for a security hire. An eagle-eyed friend, preferably with battle training, to watch over my establishment from on-high so I can focus on my business. You wouldn't know of anyone like that, would you?" she winked.

My shoulders slumped with the weight of shame. "I'm afraid my eagle-eyes won’t do you any good from the ground.” I reached across my chest and ran a hand over the crest of one wing. “I'm crippled,” I confessed bitterly. “I can't help you."

And then, she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I would perform whatever errands and odd jobs needed doing. In exchange, she would work to find a medicine or perhaps even a spell that might heal my wings. 

I thought of the last time I flew before the attack. The ease of cruising through the clouds. The freedom of it. I wanted nothing more than to feel that feeling again. This inn-keeper was offering lodging, gold, hot meals, and the possibility of restoring my pride as a warrior. And wasn't it a small price to pay to keep an eye on her place and help out where I could?

"Okay," I said. "Let's give it a try."

"I'm Damaia," she stuck out her hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance." 

My room at Damaia’s place, The Innside Story, was more than comfortable. Damaia had even asked Surdrim to bring in some nesting materials for me from the forest. I wove branches and grasses together until I was satisfied with my new nest. A cherry wood wardrobe stood against the wall beside the door, fully stocked with clean, crisp tunics specially sewn to accommodate my wings. A high-backed chair stood against the wall opposite the door, a few feet from my nest, next to a tall bookshelf tucked into the corner of the room. There was a small writing desk beside the window with a few quills and parchment sheets provided. I decided then that one of my very first purchases ought to be a diary. 

Over the ensuing months, Damaia used all manner of magical potions and poultices to try to restore my wings. Nothing seemed to work. I begged her to give it up. She insisted on one last attempt.

"Please, Damaia. I'm so grateful for what you've done, but it's hopeless. I'm an invalid. I always will be."

She completely ignored me. "Drink this," she said.

"What's this one?" I asked, sighing. I took the glass from her hand. The potion inside was a deep midnight blue color.

"My last ditch effort," said Damaia. "A little of every healing herb, stone, and element I could find. If this doesn't work, I don't think anything will. I have to warn you, though. If it works, it won't be without side effects."

“Like what?” I asked.

“You’ll have to supplement this initial dose with regular, smaller doses to maintain the healing effects. You’ll probably also have some very strange dreams.”

I nodded and downed the glass before I had time to talk myself out of it. The potion was thick, but went down smooth and sweet as honey. It settled in my stomach and began its work from there. I felt a warm, comforting surge of energy radiating through me. It seemed to recognize my wretched, withered wings as the point of most desperate need. The energy focused there and I felt the bones zipping together and joints flexing in their proper places again. The years of pain and dead weighted limpness melted away. 

Damaia smiled. “Let’s go outside.” She took my hand and led the way.

We stood in the courtyard of Damaia’s inn. Surdrim leaned against a stone column feigning disinterest as Damaia stepped back. “Well, go on,” she urged.

For the first time in so very long, I expanded my wings to their full, 10-foot span. They looked resplendent in the sunshine. I had forgotten how the golden speckling on the upper arches seemed to capture and hold little pieces of the light, or how vivid were the ink black wing bars intricately patterned along the blades of my flight feathers. I recalled again that freedom and ease and flapped once. Twice. Three times, and my talons were barely scraping the ground. Five times and I gained a couple of feet. Six and I was over Surdrim’s head! Seven and I had cleared the roof. I stopped counting and relaxed into my instincts. I flew a lap around the inn. I soared over the village to the forest just beyond its limits and reached my hand down to brush the leafy canopy as I passed. It was exhilarating! I circled back toward the village and touched down in Damaia’s courtyard a few minutes later. I hugged her tightly. I couldn’t speak. She seemed to understand.

“Now you can be a proper lookout,” she said, gripping my shoulders when I finally stepped back. “Go and celebrate.” Damaia passed me a handful of gold pieces. “That should be enough to get you a few drinks.”

“Oh, I couldn’t -”

“Nonsense! We’ll call it an advance,” she smiled. With that, she pressed the coins into my hand and waved Surdrim forward. The pair of them wandered back inside.

I became somewhat nocturnal over the next few weeks as much of my security work was done at night. I circled the inn, watching from its rooftop for signs of trouble. About once a week, I halted an arsonist or defended the servants by taking some overzealous flirt for a trip in the clouds. I collected my earnings, wrote in my diary, and enjoyed Damaia’s company. Surdrim even seemed to stop debating if he’d like me better boiled or rotisserie-style.

One day, I woke up early to run an errand for Damaia. I was to pick up something of Surdrim’s from the blacksmith. She handed me a pouch stuffed almost to bursting with gold to pay for the item and a cart with which to haul it back. Some kind of armor or weaponry, I supposed. I reported to the blacksmith where I was soon accosted by a few men from the village. Some of their faces looked familiar. Men I had probably tossed out of the inn recently. 

I informed them of exactly where they could lodge their complaints. A burly fellow with a long scar down the left side of his face took the first swing. I emphasized that he’d made the wrong move with a rapid swipe of my talon across his chest. It was a shallow wound, but blood blossomed from the injury and quickly soaked through his shirt. 

“How badly do you want this fight?” I challenged him. “Shall I make your right side match your left?” He stumbled back to his friends, who thought better of following his lead.

“I thought Aarakocra were supposed to be honorable!” shouted one of the men. “How can you defend that witch, Damaia?” I surged forward and loomed over the group, wings spread at half-span and feathers puffed for maximum intimidation.

“Say. That. Again,” I dared. 

“Th-the Innside St-Story is j-just an-n-nother p-poison she’s released in our t-town,” he stuttered.

“She’s a smuggler,” one of the other, braver men spoke up. “A crime lord. And now she’s brought this brothel here.”

“Have any of you even been inside the place?” I asked, incredulously. The Innside Story was a beautiful establishment. It was bright, clean, and served excellent food. Damaia was a charitable healer, not a crime lord. These men didn’t know what they were talking about. 

“Have you?” said a fourth man. I took a menacing step forward and the group shuffled quickly and wisely away. I turned back to the blacksmith. He appeared surprisingly calm in spite of the commotion.

“Sorry about all that, friend. What do I owe you for the big guy’s equipment?”

“30 gold pieces,” he said. I passed him the coins and he hefted an enormous, reinforced chest plate onto a table between us. The cart made a lot of sense now. No way could I fly that thing across town. The smith helped me load the armor and sent me on my way. 

As I approached the Innside Story, I noticed that the front of the building seemed different. Upon closer inspection, I realized that the paint seemed to be peeling and some of the windows were cracked. Damaia rushed out, a glass in her hand. 

“You’re late!” she exclaimed. “Here, drink this right away!” she thrust the glass into my hand. Tonight’s dose of pale blue healing potion. 

“Damaia, what happened to the windows?” I asked, sipping the potion. 

“Whatever do you mean?” Damaia looked puzzled. Sure enough, as the potion took effect the spiderweb cracks in the windows seemed to dissolve. The paint unpeeled and the Innside Story looked as beautiful as ever. 

“They were cracked. And the paint? I could’ve sworn I saw -”

“Quirk, you can’t be late taking your potion. I warned you there’d be side effects if you didn’t take it every day.”

“Right. Side effects. Sorry, Damaia. You’re right, I must have just been seeing things.”

“Surdrim’s chest plate looks good,” she said. I shook my head to clear it.

“Yeah. For 30 gold pieces, that thing had better be impenetrable.”

The deception went on like that for many months. Eventually, I grew curious about the flashes of dilapidated buildings and grimy, cobwebbed corners haunting my periphery. I began to experiment with my potion doses whenever possible. If Damaia gave me the potion herself, I had no choice but to drink it then and there, but if a servant brought it, I could leave it on my desk untouched. 

The potion’s effects, I realized, were two-fold. Firstly, it maintained my wings and bolstered my constitution overall. Secondly, it deluded my perception of the world. Without it, I felt the arthritic creep of old wounds in my wings again, but I saw things as they truly were. The Innside Story was a brothel after all. It was a shabby old shack -- an eyesore in the middle of town. I suspected that many, if not all, of the servants and prostitutes there were under the same illusion. Damaia, my savior and benefactor, is a witch after all and I was merely one of her puppets. 

I couldn’t abandon my post or I was sure there would be consequences far beyond the loss of lodging and gold. I thought of Surdrim’s enormous fists shattering my wings all over again. I recalled my former life as a crippled hermit, barely subsisting on what little gold I could earn doing odd jobs. I couldn’t leave. I had to keep taking the potion. I couldn’t lose my wings again. 

The next day, I snuck away to a bookshop. There, I found a few volumes that looked promising and purchased them. I spent weeks studying them in secret until I found what I was looking for. A solution. Possibly.

According to Potente Potions, myconid spores can inspire a sense of deep connection. I wondered if these spores would help to ground me in reality and counteract the psychedelic effects of Damaia’s potion. 

I spent several days traveling to surrounding villages and asking around the seedier taverns and brothels to find someone who could procure the mushrooms for me. After three weeks, I found her. A haggard old crone who owned a derelict apothecary tucked away on a grimey back street. It was an hour’s flight to get there, but I could easily manage the journey once or twice a week as the need arose. Each week, I flew there and restocked my secret cache of spores. I hid them in my nest, in a small hollow I dug out beneath a layer of musky white heather. I supplemented every dose of healing potion by inhaling a few spores and the two complimented each other as I had hoped. 

Finally, I saw the Innside Story for what it was: a decrepit building with cracked windows, peeling paint, and patrons of questionable morals. I understood now that Damaia was every bit the stereotypical Tiefilng. As much as I wanted to demand an explanation, I knew that her pet Ogrillon would flatten me if I confronted her. Furthermore, I couldn’t help but feel indebted to her still in some twisted way. 

At least now I knew the truth and was choosing to stay on my own, Ogrillon bodyguard encouraged, volition. I might still have taken the job if Damaia had offered me the choice to make freely. What business was it of mine if some impotent villagers compensated for their shortcomings in a whorehouse? Gold was all I needed, or wanted, for that matter. The time for honor had long since passed me by. 

As time went on, I became more and more dependent on the myconid spores. I started having mixed reactions as the hyper-connected sensation of the high coincided with the energy surge of the healing potion. I felt simultaneously rooted to the spot and compelled to fling myself into the sky. I heard whispers swirling in the air around me. Or perhaps in my head. I can’t tell anymore.

The Wyrm flies again. 

“No. Not here.”

He is in the clouds. Hunting. He is the clouds. 

I stand frozen in fear, desperately scanning the skies. Trails of wispy purple and red clouds drag toward the setting sun, as though draining from a great, blue tub. Pulling them down. Down. Down. 

Down. You’re safe on the ground. No dragons around. 

“I can’t. Not again.”

No wyrmies here. Nothing to fear. Down, down, down to the ground. 

The voices swim circles around my skull. 

He is the clouds. The hunting clouds. No wyrmies here. 

They spin faster. Louder. There are so many now.

Nothing to fear. Down, down, down to the ground. He is the clouds. No wyrmies here. “Nothing to fear.” Down, down, down to the ground. He is the clouds. “The hunting clouds.” You’re safe on the ground. The Wyrm flies again.

“Quirk?” I startled and spun around. “You look lost.” Damaia chuckles, but I could hear an edge in her voice. The stairwell door swung closed behind her.

“Huh? Sorry, I was just thinking,” I said, trying to play it off.

“About what?” 

“Oh, nothing, really. Just --”

“Wyrms?”

“Uh, um, no? What?”

“Worms,” she said. “You getting hungry, birdy?” she smiled and giggled. A joke. Just a joke. I laughed in the most convincing way I could muster.

“Well, it is time for dinner. I’d better go and grab some gold from my room.” I moved toward the stairs, but Damaia barred my way. 

“I warned you there’d be side effects,” she said. Her voice was chilling. “Surdrim?” she called over her shoulder. I heard the Ogrillon’s thudding steps approaching. Damaia turned slowly to face me. “You’re so stupid.”

“D-Damaia?”

“You honestly thought word wouldn’t reach me? A fucking Aarakocra warrior, the only one ever seen in these parts, looking for magic mushrooms? You think this,” she pointed down, indicating the brothel atop which we stood, “is the extent of my influence?”

“I - I just wanted t -”

“You ingrate,” she spat. “I saved you. I saved your wings. I pay your way in this world! This is how you thank me?”

“You tricked me,” I said, meekly. Surdrim appeared from the stairwell. His massive form grew all the more formidable as he ducked under the doorframe and stretched to his full height.

“I fixed you!” Damaia raved. “You couldn’t cope with your own reality! This,” she tugged a vial of healing potion from her robes, “makes the world palatable for weak little shits like you and like all these whores,” she gestures to the building under our feet, “and like every asshole who comes in here to fuck them!” 

“Damaia, I -”

“You’re just like them, Quirk. Weak! Without me and my magic, you’d be moping around haylofts again. Living on rats and people’s pity.” Damaia glared. “You think I’m wrong? You think without me you would’ve found a way to pull your life together?” 

Surdrim was beside her. Damaia snapped her fingers. In a shocking display of agility, he swept my legs and in a second, he had my arms wrapped behind my back. He gripped my wrists in one hand and with the other he maneuvered me by the beak to the roof’s edge at the back of the inn. Damaia stepped daintily forward and stood beside us, bouncing on her heels gleefully. 

“You want the truth, birdy? I’ve just told you,” her voice was a gritty whisper. “People don’t like to admit it, but I’m the best thing that could happen to someone. I recognize spoiled potential and I revive it. Those who have no potential, like most of my employees, are best kept busy and out of the way. I collect people and make them better, worthy of the space they occupy in the world. I made you better, Quirk. Why can’t you just be grateful?” Damaia probed around in her pockets and produced my spore pouch. She patted Surdrim’s arm and he released my beak and clamped down around my throat instead. 

In a moment, the edges of my vision were darkening. The rooftop pulsed around me and Damaia’s vengeful countenance swirled and twisted in my periphery. I couldn’t breathe. Against years of battle training, I panicked and struck out with all my limbs, talons swishing through the air. Surdrim released my windpipe and as I felt the air rush back into my lungs, Damaia slammed the spore pouch over my beak. I inhaled the entirety of my supply. In a moment, it began:

He is in the clouds. Hunting. He is the clouds. 

“No! It’s not true!” I wailed. Surdrim grabbed my beak and clamped it shut again.

“Down. You’re safe on the ground.” No dragons around. No wyrmies here. Nothing to fear. 

“Let the birdy sing,” Damaia sneered, and he relaxed his grip.

“Down, down, down to the ground.” Nothing to fear. Down, down, down to the ground. He is the clouds. No wyrmies here. 

“You’re all liars!” I shouted at the voices in my head. “Shut up!” They didn’t. They got louder. They cackled and jeered. I couldn’t make them stop. I couldn’t separate Damaia’s voice from theirs. Maybe there was no difference. Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.

“Nothing to fear.” Down, down, down to the ground. He is the clouds. “The hunting clouds.” You’re safe on the ground. The Wyrm flies again.

Somewhere far away, Damaia snapped her fingers again and Surdrim’s vice-grip was gone. I tumbled backward off the rooftop. Instinct unfurled my wings mid-fall, but it was too late. I thrashed in the wind as they awkwardly attempted to right my position and force me into some semblance of flight, but by then I was merely falling in a more complicated fashion. One involuntary barrel-roll and several skips across the cobblestone later, I skidded to a halt.

He is in the clouds. Hunting. He is the clouds. “Down. You’re safe on the ground.” 

I jerked my head side-to-side, knowing it would do no good.

No dragons around. No wyrmies here. Nothing to fear. 

I pressed my hands over the sides of my head to muffle the sound, but it only trapped the voices inside. They resounded in the depths of my mind.

“Down, down, down to the ground.” Nothing to fear. Down, down, down to the ground. He is the clouds. No wyrmies here. “Nothing to fear.” Down, down, down to the ground.

I lurched to my knees, clutching my bruised rib cage. The bones should’ve been broken, but my aerial acrobatics, desperate as they were, provided a slightly less damaging landing at least. I stood and stretched my remarkably uninjured wings.

He is the clouds. “The hunting clouds.” You’re safe on the ground. The Wyrm flies again.

I quickly collapsed my wings against my back. I cannot let him see. He’ll come for me. He is in the clouds. 

I haven’t had a moment’s peace since that day. They taunt me. He taunts me. The skies are watching. He hasn’t caught me yet. I have to keep running. Someday, I’ll find my wings again. Sometimes, I think they’ve come back to me, but I know they’re not real. Maybe I never had wings. The flightless shame of Star Mount. But I can feel them. Illusory appendages. Phantom feathers. He is watching. The hunting sky bows to the watchful night.

“Summer bright and bitter end

Birdy won’t fly home again

He’s in the clouds, the hunting clouds

It’s much safer on the ground

Early wyrmies get the bird

Feathers fall and chickies squirm

Battle brave, now conquered coward

Star Mount’s sons are overpowered

He is the clouds, the hunting clouds

It’s much safer on the ground.”

On our way out of Baldur’s Gate, a couple of citizens requested our presence as witnesses to their marriage. Mantlemorn agreed and blathered afterward about how nice it was to do some small kindness for a citizen. She still believes the Hellriders can regain a measure of glory and respect. I’ll just be happy to earn a meaningful death. I probably don’t deserve it. The world’s only flightless Aarakocra. Wingless Wonder. When did they go away? Did I ever have them? I can’t remember.

Father’s wings were resplendent in the sunshine. Brilliant red plumage with golden flecks. Cirrak hatched an opaque yellow, like vintage drapes marinated in pipe smoke. He matured to a vivid ambrosia, though. And with Raakic’s dull sienna pigment, the three of us set the nest ablaze. A clutch of sparks laid in a bed of kindling. It was only natural, then. Under the hunting clouds. How could he pass up the beacon of our colony?

The deceitful skies have never been safe, and now there is no haven for me on the ground. He will find me. He is hunting. Always hunting. I must go lower, still. I will follow Elturel into these burning depths where he cannot go. I will burn before I am burned. I must go lower. Follow the city down. He cannot follow. The lying wind does not blow beneath the ground. Lower lower lower I will go with Elturel into the depths to burn before I am burned before I burn before I burn before I burn where the lying wind does not blow.

Little Honey Drop

golden-fletched and chirping

our summer sweet surprise

Horizon burns low like a candle wick

flickering amber eyes 

Little Honey Drop

feather-scorched and fading

our summer sweet demise

Veridian shadows occluding those

dying ember eyes

Dragon dreams are chasing me

on wings of black and green

The hunting clouds all gather ‘round

dear brother, forgive me

Dragon dreams are haunting me

echoes shriek and scream

The hunting clouds all gather ‘round

I could not save you, Kri

In the years since the last attack, a handful of our warriors have found their way home to the Star Mounts. Each of them bears the scars of that day, inside and out. I spent my time mixing salves and pastes to soothe cracked and broken beaks; applying oils to encourage the regrowth of shredded plumage, now ingrown and infected; and doing my best to calm my battle-weary kin when they awoke in the night, screeching the names of the ones we lost. With time and care, I can mend bones and renew feathers. But to heal a shattered mind is quite another thing.

I spent a few weeks traveling to Candlekeep in the hope of discovering some new medicine to aid my colony. Along my way, I came to a Temple of Torm. There, I met Ontharr Frume, a human Paladin, and his pet, a slightly undersized coal-black dire wolf named Ash. He granted me safe harbor for the night and we talked a long while as he helped me make camp.

"You're only the second Aarakocra I've ever seen in these parts," said Ontharr. "A little over a year ago, I met one. He and his friends brought Ash to me. They said they'd had to put down his mother. Some kind of corruption, they said."

"What did the Aarakocra look like?" I asked. "And who was he traveling with?"

"He was a bit older with red feathers. There was something wrong with his wings. I'm not sure what it was. He wouldn't talk about it," said Ontharr. "He was with a blue Dragonborn, a Harengon, and an Elf, as I recall. Strange little menagerie, they were."

I nodded. Aarakocra seldom leave the colonies in the mountains, so my appearance sparked whispers and conversation wherever I went. Ontharr's story matched the rumors I'd heard. Against my better judgement, a tiny flicker of hope sparked in my chest.

"Did that Aarakocra's name happen to be Quirk?" I asked.

"Yes, actually! Do you know him?"

"He's my uncle. Did he say where he was going?"

As the night wore on, I explained the plague of dragon attacks in the Star Mounts and how, even after 8 years, our warriors, those who'd found their way back anyway, were still reeling from the aftermath. Ontharr smiled as I told him what I hoped to learn in Candlekeep.

"If Quirk came this way, then maybe there are others who've seen him," I said. "Maybe they could point me in the right direction. If I could bring him home..." I felt tears welling up.

"I don't know much about your goddess," said Ontharr. "But it seems to me that she's put you on a path to bring your people home - in body and in spirit. You're going to need all the help you can get." I nodded. "You know," Ontharr continued with a sigh. "Ash is an excellent tracker. Never forget a scent, do you, boy?" Ash thumped his tail contentedly. I stared at Ontharr, shocked. Was he saying what I thought he was saying?

Ash turned out to be a wonderful traveling companion. He was a skilled hunter and made great company. His intimidation factor was a blessing as would-be bandits thought better of barring our way.

At Candlekeep, I presented a copy of an old Aarakocran cultural text for admission and loaned Ash's guard dog services at the gate for the duration of my stay. Over the ensuing months, I dug deep into my studies. I wanted to know everything there was about injuries and wounds of the mind and how they might be treated.

One day, as I sat pouring over some particularly complex articles, someone quietly took the seat across from me. I glanced up to give a courteous nod, but froze when I met the gaze of another Aarakocra! He was hunched over slightly and his feathers, once a rich copper-barred brown, were faded with age. I stood and bowed my head respectfully to my elder.

"Forgive me, please. I wasn't expecting to meet any of my own kind so far from home," I said.

After a pause, the elder spoke: "Welcome, young one. I am Coo."

"It's an honor to meet you, Coo. My name is Kri." I thought I caught the subtlest flash of something in Coo's eye when he heard my name, but I couldn't be sure.

"I'm sorry to disturb your studies, but you see, I wasn't expecting to meet any of my own kind so far from home, either." He chuckled. "What brought you to Candlekeep, Kri?"

I sat down and told Coo about the returning warriors and my mission to find better ways to help them. "I'm sure you know about Elaacrimalicros," I said. Coo nodded gravely. "My uncle was among those scattered to other places in the last attack 8 years ago."

"And he has not yet returned?"

I hung my head sorrowfully. "No."

"Come with me," said Coo.

He led me past countless book spines, through rows and rows of shelves, and into the main hall where he pushed open the nearest window and gestured to a passing patron.

"Close this up behind us, won't you?" he said. The startled patron, a portly gnome, nodded her head. With that, Coo threw himself out the window and into the wind. I followed after him, marveling at the grace and speed with which he maneuvered, even in his advanced years.

We climbed steadily upward, to the peaks of the tower spires of the great archive, until we reached a landing platform and a stone door which had evidently been installed specifically for Coo's access. As I alighted behind him, Coo slid the talons of his right hand into a specially crafted lock. I couldn't work out the logistics of it, but it was obvious that only an Aarakocra would have the dexterity and range of motion to manipulate the mechanism inside.

The door swung inward and we hopped a half-step down into a spacious private study. In the far corner was a loft. The nest on top told me that these were Coo's personal quarters. Even from across the room, I recognized the weaving pattern of the northern colonies, joining grasses and twigs together in tight, dense bundles intended to conserve heat and banish bitter winds. In the center of the room was a wide rug covered in calming blue mandala patterns where a few broad cushions were laid out. The stale scent of incense coated the air.

I stood quietly taking in the surroundings as Coo gathered up a few things in his arms. "Come. Sit." He waved at the cushions. I sat, wondering what all this could be about. Coo stacked a few volumes on the ground between us and pulled up a cushion for himself. He pushed the books toward me and said, "Kri, I feel as though we've already met." I stared at Coo, confused. "As clouded as his mind was, in the time I spent with him here, Quirk had only the clearest and happiest memories of you. These," he swept his arm over the books, "are his journals."

I was dumbfounded. "You know him? You know my uncle?" I stammered. Coo explained that Quirk had come to Candlekeep about a year ago with a blue Dragonborn named Umber, a Harengon named Kunin, and a Tiefling-Elf woman named Enya. The four were Hellriders of Elturel seeking help on their mission to save the city. Coo had trained Quirk in the Way of the Kensei and started him on a path of reconnection between his mind and body.

"Please, make yourself comfortable. Quirk's writings will tell you all you need to know. Take all the time you need," said Coo.

Hours passed as I read and reread page after page. All the while, Coo meditated silently. Uncle Quirk had suffered so far beyond anything I had seen, even among his comrades who had returned. By nightfall, I had finished. I copied down a few key pages to carry with me and let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding. He thought I was dead. I had to find him. 

As the sun crested the horizon, Ash and I took our leave from Candlekeep. I asked Coo to send word of my mission to the Star Mounts. He enlisted the aid of Sylvira, who arranged for a griffon to take us to her friend, a Wizard called Traxigor. He could then teleport us as far as Elturel. It was very strange to fly that way, but the griffons easily halved our travel time and I was grateful to conserve my energy. Traxigor was hesitant to send us on our own, but after some convincing he finally relented with a shrug.

"Look, if you want to descend to the depths of Hell with nothing but an overgrown mongrel, then who am I to stop you?" he muttered. Traxigor folded his fingers together and pressed his palms outward. A satisfying cascade of pops and snaps emanated from his knuckles.

The next few days are a blur of gore and hellfire. There are no words for the desecrated state of Elturel now. It's hard to imagine how it could ever be salvaged, or if it's even possible to sever the chains that tether it in Avernus. 

I spotted the spire of the cathedral tower near what once was the city center and decided to seek shelter there. The bridges have mostly fallen away now. I watched as some larger hunks of stone plummeted to the molten lava flows far below, while smaller ones simply disintegrated in the  heat haze radiating mercilessly. Incessantly. I scruffed Ash in my talons and attempted to lift off, to no avail.

"Can you make that jump, boy?" I asked. Ash appeared to study the gap, cocking his head to one side. He looked at me with a reassuring expression. "Okay," I said, taking a deep breath. "See you on the other side."

I spread my wings and took flight, coasting on the thermal flares across the canyon toward High Hall. Several yards below me, Ash sprang forth, his lithe form sprawling as he surged through the air. He faltered, however, and started to fall. I folded my wings and made a steep dive, scruffing him in my talons as I shot Gust of Wind, powering us skyward in a tumult of air.

As we soared over what remained of people's homes, little more than the imprints of stone foundations now, flaming blasts seared past me, singeing feathers as they flew by. I deflected the worst of them and sent a blast of pinkish golden light in the direction of my attackers. They were deterred long enough for us to make a dash toward the cathedral with only a few stray shots scraping down the side of my torso and across Ash's legs. It was enough to throw off my landing, but not to pull me off course.

I tumbled onto a balcony near the top of the spire, flattening my body in case of any more enemy fire. After a moment, feeling no whisks of air overhead, I dared to get to my feet. A set of familiar claw marks scored the crumbling marble railing beside me. Someone - an Aarakocran someone - had perched here at some point. Ash sniffed at the marks and perked up. I knew we were on the right track.

We rested there for two days gathering our strength and exploring the cathedral. Ash and I were careful to avoid the undead minotaurs jostling and jousting in the halls. I sent them galloping in the opposite direction whenever possible with a simple Origami spell. A paper crane or dog could keep them at bay for an hour or so. Certainly long enough for us to sneak by. We descended into the depths of the cathedral in the faint hope that we might recover any abandoned resources or perhaps find more clues.

Pherria came upon us as we slept slumped against each other in a dark corner. Once we were all assured that we were allies, I shared my mission to find Quirk and his companions. She told me of all they'd done for her and the people she was protecting and of their mission to restore Lulu the hollyphant's memories to learn how to save Elturel. They were here only a few months ago. They had faced down a horrible screeching howler monster and freed Grand Duke Ulder Ravengard from the torment of a demonic presence which threatened to overtake him. I met with the remaining survivors, some of whom came forward with yet more tales of Umber, Kunin, Enya, Quirk, and Captain Reya Mantlemorn. 

A woman called Hariska recalled how the Hellriders had battled their way across Torm's Blade, ensuring that she and her two young sons could reach High Hall safely. The little ones mimicked how Quirk had swung his blade. They described the intricate filigree designs on its handle and the superior craftsmanship of its helix blade. Others spoke of how they feasted on the meat of giant crabs slain by the party and how they'd been so entertained by Lulu's antics. They remembered Captain Mantlemorn tearfully as they told me how she'd fallen to the minotaurs in the halls overhead. Tad and Mae Teguli approached last of all with a message for their son.

"Please, if you find him, can you give him our message?" asked Mae, handing me a dirty scrap of parchment. Gladly, I promised to give it to him as soon as I could track him down.

"He needs someone like you," said Tad. "Someone who can give him some hope." Mae stepped forward and placed a comforting paw on her husband's shoulder as he wiped a tear from his eye. Pherria appeared beside me and offered some words of comfort for the Tegulis. Somberly, they wandered away.

"Kunin's daughter, their granddaughter, is missing," said Pherria. "I don't have the heart to tell them she's probably gone." The scent of preservation oils permeated the air around us. Startled, I sniffed at it, trying to pinpoint its origin. "Are you alright?" asked Pherria. The smell faded as quickly as it had come.

As Ash and I prepared to leave High Hall, I knew we needed to move quickly. It had been a year already since Quirk had been at Candlekeep, and several months since he was in Elturel. It was a miracle the trail hadn't gone cold by now.

I paused briefly to pay my respects to Captain Mantlemorn. Pherria showed me to her resting place. Again, the smell of preservation oils hung in the air. This time, though, I wasn't imagining things. This altar was clearly the work of my uncle. I was impressed by how closely he'd been able to replicate a traditional Aarakocran funerary rite. Although the body had decayed quite markedly by then, I could still make out that Reya had been a fierce woman with strong, stoic features. I prayed that she had found peace and asked her to send strength and courage as I picked up the path where she had left it.

We snuck out of the cathedral and picked our way to the chains anchoring the city in Avernus. I studied the drop, pacing back and forth as I tallied my inventory. There was only one way to do this.

"Alright, Ash. You're not going to like this." Before he had time to dodge me, I flapped my wings and took Ash by his scruff in my talons. We dove over the edge. I unfurled my wings to their widest span to slow our descent as much as possible. Ash howled in fright, but at least knew better than to writhe too much. About 60 feet from the ground, I repeated the same trick I'd used when we crossed into Elturel and blasted the scorched earth below with a torrent of wind. I surfed the monsoon, skipping across it like a clumsy stone until I was able to deposit Ash in the dirt with a soft thump. I slid a few feet from him, absorbing the worst of the impact myself. I sat up slowly, letting the fuzz clear from my head. Ash lapped my face a few times and I felt better. "Thanks, buddy. Sorry I had to do that to you."

I stood and surveyed our surroundings. The crimson waters of the River Styx trailed away to the horizon. A faint heat haze shimmered over everything. Reddish orange dirt sprawled for miles in all directions. The ground was so warm, I worried that if I stood still too long, I would sear my skin. I pulled Uncle Quirk's feather from my bag and held it for Ash to sniff. 

"Any sign of him, Ash?" I asked. The wolf spent several minutes loping in long arcs. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left again. At last, he stood rigid with his ears forward, nose twitching, and eyes narrowed. I followed along a few feet above, coasting on thermal flares while Ash led the way. We followed the scarlet river for miles. Fatigue threatened to ground me. Finally, something materialized in the distance.

Ash led me directly to the outer gates of Fort Knucklebone. A gang of foulmouthed redcaps tried to dissuade us from entering.

"I said - Let. Us. Pass!" I shouted as a surge of rose gold tinted energy swirled around me. The sound of a bell tolled ominously as I pumped a magical charge into my voice. The most garrulous of the redcaps, who I presumed to be their leader, tumbled from his place atop the gates with a shriek. The gates creaked open. 

Mad Maggie and I became fast friends, albeit I don't entirely trust her motives. She told me she had sent the Hellriders to her sister, Red Ruth, who would know how they could reach the Bleeding Citadel where they hoped to recover Zariel's sword. She shared with me some correspondence from Ruth.

In her letters, Ruth explained that in exchange for an appointment at the Infernal Rapture spa, she would help the party perform a ritual to find one of the Fallen Three. They would be able to guide the Hellriders to the Bleeding Citadel. For this ritual, Ruth needs the blood of an exceptionally powerful creature.

"Arkhan the Cruel?" I gasped.

"Seems so," Maggie muttered. Her voice was like the creaking of hollow trees in a dead forest.

"I have to catch up with them – fast." Just then, a huge mechanical beast roared into the center of the fort. 

"You're in luck, girl. I just received -"

"Hey, GUYS!" bellowed a particularly obnoxious redcap called Mad Stacks. Maggie pressed her fingers to her temples as if stricken by a sudden migraine. 

"Let's ride," she groaned. I learned that this machine was called a Demon Grinder. Soon after, I learned why.