Basically, I exclusively write in the past tense so I thought I'd have a bash at writing in present. Yes, it's incredibly short and I had no idea how to finish that end bit there.
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Ragged snorting, like a horse with a cold. Its feet restlessly scuff their talons against the cobbles of the ground. The majestic beast lowers its sizable beak, scooping and knocking a few coal stones down the oesophagus - an evening snack to aid the digestion of its late dinner. A bubbling core rages nearby, but it is not nearly enough to drown the satisfied song the bird breaks into from a decent meal. Its squawking could have it mistaken for a less modest pigeon, though those lucky - or often unlucky - enough to stumble into its nest would find themselves plenty wrong.
One young traveller, too, had himself the privilege of encountering the feathered legend, many moons ago. Tonight would be his second encounter, as he steadily follows the ashen trail up which the hoots lead. His boots are sullen with a layer of grey dust, and his coat by now had become ridden with tatters and frays long beyond the possibility of repair, but most importantly he had made it.
What felt like an eternity later, the mage approaches the open cavern from where the cooing originated, taking baby steps towards the tunnel's rear. His feet stop at the entry, sighting the unmistakable image of a body coated in fire-like hues. It is a far grander size than the boy remembers.
Startled by the tiny human, its song is interrupted by screeching, and its body clumsily falls to the floor. With a fidget of its legs and feathered arms it snaps at him, hissing lowly as it frantically struggles back to its feet.
From up close the legend's size alone gets his knees quaking, the screech forcing his hands briefly to the ears. It takes a few seconds to ease off both the fear and the piercing pain, though his ears are still ringing. It is not size alone that shakes the boy, but knowing that it would take one look into its piercing eyes to be mindlessly lured to its control. There was no proof that this was in fact true, but Eolin never was the particularly daring kind, and kept his own pair averted to the brogue-ish pattern on his feet.
Had the extraordinarily large pheasant been healthier, it may have been less aggressive, but the fact was that it most certainly is not. Scars litter where the creature is balding from where its feathers had previously been stolen, forcibly removed from the roots, some still fresh and oozing with a magma-like substance that one could only guess to be its blood. Some of its claws are noticeably short, that look more like they were hacked off than broken in a scrap. One observation made perfectly clear that its body is fragile and in tatters, much unlike the beauty that once seared through his village.
Eolin's movements are slow, and carefully he draws the softest, most vibrant feather he ever touched from the sack slung over his left shoulder. He doesn't say a word, just holds it patiently forward for the once magnificent creature to see.
Defensively, its head rears into the comfort of its slender neck and a gentle hiss ensues. The bird appears curious, however, as its head twitches so that both eyes can take in this familiar length of feather. One could describe its eyes to reflect that of confusion, and a Vietnamese flashback.
