Ryns.
The soldier caste of dragonlings, a particularly vicious species of shapeshifters.
Dragonlings are dangerous.
Ryns are deadly.
Born and raised to be a bloodthirsty soldier, Anita's life has never been her own. She always knew her fa...
Our mating bonds are not of love. They are simply of strength. We can reserve our love for marriage. In the principle of offspring, we all have a duty to produce a stronger generation. This is not accomplished through compassion, but from sacrifice.
This is Our Law.
~From the Dragonling Grimoire
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The next morning, my guards finally unlocked my windows and let me go hunt. I was starving. The "meal plan" at E'zastava was a simple affair. You can eat what you catch. There were cooks on hand, but you had to provide your own meat and pay a few lodes. I personally didn't find any use for the cooks.
Winter was slowly ending, with no snow covering the ground, but deer and elk wouldn't return until at least late spring. All of us were living on rodents and the occasional unfortunate fox or wolf when times got really bad.
I slowly circled above the forest, trying to discern any smells. Fox was the most prominent, but there was blood in the air that warned me someone else had gotten it first. Nothing else seemed promising - mouse and squirrel, both of which were likely hiding underground where I couldn't reach them, and a variety of birds that would hardly be a mouthful if I was fast enough to catch them.
Today was my day off, and I could hunt until the sun went down. After that, I would have to report back in. No dragonlings but pairs in their mating season were allowed out after dark, to avoid... embarrassing situations. Once I'd been locked out when I missed roll call and had to dodge lovestruck dragonlings all night. Or lust-struck. Either way, not something I ever wanted to repeat.
A screech of an owl brought my focus from my thoughts and back to the hunt. I didn't particularly like avian prey, but my stomach loudly rumbled to remind me I couldn't be picky.
Scanning the trees below, I spotted the tawny owl stretching its wings as it was getting ready to sleep for the day. It wasn't huge, but it was better than a tiny songbird. Folding my wings to my side and pointing my head downwards, I let gravity do the work for me and dropped like a stone. At the last second, I opened my wings to stop myself and my body reversed, my tail shooting out and impaling the owl. It screamed, but it turned into a gurgle a second later as it died from blood loss.
As I landed among the trees, I pulled the owl off my tail and bit into it. The meat was rather bland and feathers caught in my teeth, but food was food. It was gone in a few moments and I gazed around the hibernating forest, picking the feathers out of my fangs with a claw.
If it was spring, herbs and wild onions would be abundant. I couldn't live on greens, not for longer than a few weeks, but they went a long way to making the meat a lot more filling. Summer brought amaranth, wild grains, and nuts that tasted great with deer, and fall flushed the forest with fruits and vegetables. Just the thought of the beef stew that they made at Skhola made my mouth water.
