a series of sbi oneshots

I'm alive. WAIT WHAT?!

idiots trying to communicate

_______________________________________
Surely, this day can't get worse.

He woke up to an ambush by hunters, no breakfast even, just the sun in his eyes and a sword at his throat. Phil had been roughly bound, muzzled, beaten, a collar around his throat, and tossed into a cage.

And then, naturally, that cage had been carried into the Nether. Because of course idiot hunters would to decide but there was no better shortcut. at the very least, their idiocy had given Phil an opening to escape.

The whole band of them is dead now. Laying at his feet, their throats laid open, their faces permanently etched in rage and terror, their eyes staring blankly up at the nether ceiling. Phil looks away.

It isn’t the first time he’s killed, not by a long shot. Being a hybrid means living in a kill or be killed world. Those who hesitate don’t live long. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel nausea in the pit of his stomach, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t want to stick his hands in lava just to get the blood off.

He shudders and takes a deep breath. Hyperventilating the acrid, smoky air won’t be good for him. 

With a bit of prying, Phil gets the muzzle off, he ignores the stinging cuts on his cheeks. He should have been more careful with his talons but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He’s not a fucking animal. He’s not.

Even if he slaughtered the hunters with his talons instead of reaching for any weapon. Even if he hissed and snarled instead of spitting curses.

Phil takes another shaky breath.

He carefully breaks the chain between his wrists with a chunk of blackstone and sets about getting what he can from the hunters. He carefully doesn't look at the faces of the men as he searches through their pockets.

They kidnapped him, they would have killed him or worse, but it still feels terribly wrong steal from the dead. Phil sends a prayer for forgiveness up to his lady. She doesn't answer, as always.

He doesn't come away with much from the hunters pockets. A gold ring, a small knife, bits of food and a water skin. their swords are too heavy for him, the bows were broken in the fight.

There is nothing Phil hates more then arrows. He turns away from the sight of the scattered shafts before it can call up memories of his flock, falling from the sky, sprouting feathers and wood from their throats.

The horses were killed by the hoglin that had provided the opportunity for his escape,  Phil winces with pity for them, but he is guilty glad that he won't have to feel bad for abandoning them in the nether. He can fly, he has no need for the horses.

In the bottom of the head huntsman's bag, Phil finds it. a box, locked, carved with runes, and humming with power. He smashes the lock open and stares down at the tiny wooden carving, reverently cradled on silk.

A totem of undying.

Maybe his lady heard him after all.

Phil carefully scoops it up and holds it tight in his hand. He can feel the power, pins and needles, almost painful as they crawl up his wrist and to his arm.

His skin is cold. Almost like there's a hand holding his.

Phil shudders and gathers up his supplies. He's getting out of the nether.

He scrambles up a rocky embankment, smaller avian hybrids can take off from standing, but Phil’s massive wings need more help than that. He launches himself out over The lava lake, his wings catch the heat rising from the surface and he flies.