The Legacy of Dirty Birds

Deadwings and Their Hospitality

Calum opened his eyes, and thought he was dead. He was wrapped in warm blankets and he laid on a mattress full of something extremely soft. Suspiciously soft. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a real mattress. Then his waking body hit him with a dull ache in his back, and away dashed all hopes for heaven.

"Are you awake?" A new voice asked.

Calum froze, then slowly peeled back the blanket from over his head. He was in a circular room, made of wood but... not planks, almost like it'd been carved from the biggest stump in the world. To his right a small fire crackled in rock-lined fireplace, smoke rising through a hole in the wood. There was a collection of cooking pots, pans, and utensils hanging from the ceiling along with several vegetables. To his left was another bed, this one more permanent and the mattress was encased in an ovular railing. A few candles sat unlit on a low table. Sitting at said table, was another deadwing, its large dark wings folded behind them.

It—he? Was holding a bowl and staring at Calum darkly from behind layers of shiny black hair. Calum stared back, still trying to comprehend where he was. The air smelled of livings things and the warmth that held them together.

"You're the deadwing that attacked me near the forest!" Calum realized, breaking out of the trance. His hand slapped his thigh, where there was no sword scabbard. Calum frantically wheeled back to lock eyes with the being in front of him.

The deadwing's eyes flicked down, and then back up. He didn't say anything audibly but Calum could feel a papercut coming on from the prickle of his presence. The deadwing wanted to be nowhere near him. 

Calum glanced down. He was not wearing a shirt. His chest was wrapped snuggly in new bandages, but not cloth ones. At least, not any cloth he'd ever seen. He lifted up the blanket and—thank gods—his pants were still there. His foot had also been rewrapped and it no longer constantly ached.

"Where's my shirt? Wait a minute, where am I? Who are you? Where's Holly? Am I being held hostage? How are you talking?" He squinted, "I think I demand to be released."

The deadwing shot him another sharpened glare.

Calum hesitated, "what... who are you? What do I call you?"

"Deadwing. It, he, they. Are you hungry?" His voice was like metal, like dried bone.

Hunger pulled a claw across Calum's stomach with such force he felt dizzy. The growl was embarrassingly loud. Deadwing walked over to the fire, and picked up a bowl that had been sitting above it, unattended like a lonely lady at the balcony of a party. Calum flinched slightly when they approached him, Deadwing's ears flicked back. He didn't seem eager to be within swiping distance of Calum either.

He set the bowl on the ground and sat a few feet away. Just watching him. Calum cared only for a moment, before the scent coming from the bowl yanked his head towards it.

The bowl was filled with still-steaming vegetable soup. Calum was overwhelmed by the smell of it, forgetting instantly how scared he was and started scooping it into his mouth. One bite and he stopped, it tasted, well, amazing, but not like any vegetable soup he'd ever had.

An uncomfortable buzz filled every bone in his body. He felt...shaky. He barely realized when he reached up to the side of his head and started to pull on his hair gently. What did he remember from last night? All his memories were covered in a thick, soupy, haze, but he remembered the High Welf, Tarif's scythe, Holly...and Holly's wings.

Deadwing was watching him.

Calum's hand immediately dropped, accompanied by a wave of dizziness and hot stones of shame imbedded deep in his stomach. "Sorry."