Beasts (Anurin/Elske)
Dec 25, 2016 19:17:08 GMT -5
Post by Harbor on Dec 25, 2016 19:17:08 GMT -5
She really needed no further reasons to dislike the nobility. They did not appreciate their money, their homes, their workers, their friends or family. They abused their power as though merely having it gave them the right. Besides they were arrogant. And irritating. Peasants should run the monarchy. They understood the value of things.
Elske glowered up into the bare branches of the maple above her. Fenir sat beside her and solemnly watched as well. A falcon of some sort was tangled up there, its jesses stuck among the twigs, at least one of its wings damaged somehow. It looked like it had also sustained damage to its tail feathers. Regardless of the fact that it was stuck, this bird wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. At least not by flight.
”Guard this,” Elske muttered to Fenir, and, having considered the dismal situation for several minutes now, shook off her coat and unbuttoned her vest. The coat and vest she draped over Fenir to keep them out of the snow, then she dragged her loose, off-white shirt over her head and draped that over his rump. The vest she buttoned back over her undershirt and brace, then her brown winter coat she yanked back on and swiftly closed, breath steaming. She took her shirt back and stuffed it between a few of the coat buttons, and stomped up to the tree.
Tree-climbing not being an endeavor she’d ever cultivated, Elske struggled on her way up the tree. Maple bark was smooth to the hands but slippery to boots. At least there were no longer any leaves to obstruct her way. The falcon thrashed all the more madly when it heard, saw, then felt her approaching. The branch sagged beneath her weight as she straddled it and slid closer. Not a secure position by any means, but it left her hands somewhat available for work and mishaps.
”Hush now,” she said uselessly, knowing it was useless. One could not simply calm a wild animal, or a fearful one. This hawk was young yet, she could tell by the legginess to its limbs and lack of mature contouring to its feathers. Plus it was smaller than most of its larger-bodied cousins, only a few inches taller than a mourning dove. It screeched at her when she loosened her shirt and threw it over it, swiftly tucking the sides in around its trapped feet so she could break the twigs and branch tangling its leather jesses. Then, falcon still squirming and screaming, bill likely ravaging its side of her shirt, Elske dangled the bird by its angles as she would a hen and climbed back down one-handed.
Elske didn’t know a great deal about falconry other than what she’d picked up spying on the nobility or working in their houses, but she knew more about the animals in the wild. One learned a great deal when they avoided the company of sentient beings.
Laying it gently on its back in the snow—it wouldn’t get too cold just yet—Elske started by inspecting what parts of it her ruined shirt didn’t hide. Toes and legs were fine, talons unbroken—the smoothness of them further belied the bird’s youth. Scales undamaged, though the jesses had strained a few. Elske adjusted her grip to pin the bird’s wings, and wondered how she could hood the falcon without smothering it, as she’d need to do to treat it without allowing it to savage her arms. The bird’s tailfeathers were all crooked, cracked or broken. They’d need to be replaced, those feathers. She didn’t know what the process was called, but being the only available person on one nobleman’s staff who was not afraid of his falcons, Elske had assisted one of her past employers in pasting replacement feathers into broken shafts once. Surely with some work she could replicate the process. Bird would look fair ridiculous though.
The white striping on the feather’s shafts was what griped her the most—it indicated a poor diet over an extended period of time. A week or more at least. Either the bird had been lost for that long and couldn’t fend for itself or its master hadn’t known how to properly care for it.
”I can’t right your wing here,” Elske told the squirming bundle of cotton and feather. ”I don’t just bring all my bits with me. But it doesn’t look broken. I won’t jostle it, promise.” Elske chewed the inside of her lip as she worked one side of the shirt up at least to see what the damage specifically was, if she could. She had to pin its wiry legs down lightly with her leg to do it. Would the bird recognize any familiar bird noise if she made it to him? She’d gotten good at imitating a number of animal calls; the endeavor gave her something to do while traveling the wilderness. She couldn’t usually identify the falcons though—they flew too high for her to see, and juveniles had a wide variety of appearances to begin with. She tried one of the commoner grating calls, and the bird ignored her. She tried one that was more of a curling screech. Still no acknowledgment of her efforts.
At last though she tried a smaller chatter, typical to some smaller breed of falcon that she didn’t know the name of, and the bird temporarily paused, head twisting, looking for its kin. Elske grinned. ”Found you,” she murmured, and lightly bound the merlin’s ankles in with the wrists of her shirt, after wrapping the arms of it around its body to secure its wings. The bird’s head she winkled out of one of the ragged holes it had made, and it rewarded her with a slash of its sharp beak across the meat of her thumb. Elske regarded the laceration with a sigh. It would need stitches later. For now her hands were cold enough that it wouldn’t bleed too quickly.
Elske glowered up into the bare branches of the maple above her. Fenir sat beside her and solemnly watched as well. A falcon of some sort was tangled up there, its jesses stuck among the twigs, at least one of its wings damaged somehow. It looked like it had also sustained damage to its tail feathers. Regardless of the fact that it was stuck, this bird wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. At least not by flight.
”Guard this,” Elske muttered to Fenir, and, having considered the dismal situation for several minutes now, shook off her coat and unbuttoned her vest. The coat and vest she draped over Fenir to keep them out of the snow, then she dragged her loose, off-white shirt over her head and draped that over his rump. The vest she buttoned back over her undershirt and brace, then her brown winter coat she yanked back on and swiftly closed, breath steaming. She took her shirt back and stuffed it between a few of the coat buttons, and stomped up to the tree.
Tree-climbing not being an endeavor she’d ever cultivated, Elske struggled on her way up the tree. Maple bark was smooth to the hands but slippery to boots. At least there were no longer any leaves to obstruct her way. The falcon thrashed all the more madly when it heard, saw, then felt her approaching. The branch sagged beneath her weight as she straddled it and slid closer. Not a secure position by any means, but it left her hands somewhat available for work and mishaps.
”Hush now,” she said uselessly, knowing it was useless. One could not simply calm a wild animal, or a fearful one. This hawk was young yet, she could tell by the legginess to its limbs and lack of mature contouring to its feathers. Plus it was smaller than most of its larger-bodied cousins, only a few inches taller than a mourning dove. It screeched at her when she loosened her shirt and threw it over it, swiftly tucking the sides in around its trapped feet so she could break the twigs and branch tangling its leather jesses. Then, falcon still squirming and screaming, bill likely ravaging its side of her shirt, Elske dangled the bird by its angles as she would a hen and climbed back down one-handed.
Elske didn’t know a great deal about falconry other than what she’d picked up spying on the nobility or working in their houses, but she knew more about the animals in the wild. One learned a great deal when they avoided the company of sentient beings.
Laying it gently on its back in the snow—it wouldn’t get too cold just yet—Elske started by inspecting what parts of it her ruined shirt didn’t hide. Toes and legs were fine, talons unbroken—the smoothness of them further belied the bird’s youth. Scales undamaged, though the jesses had strained a few. Elske adjusted her grip to pin the bird’s wings, and wondered how she could hood the falcon without smothering it, as she’d need to do to treat it without allowing it to savage her arms. The bird’s tailfeathers were all crooked, cracked or broken. They’d need to be replaced, those feathers. She didn’t know what the process was called, but being the only available person on one nobleman’s staff who was not afraid of his falcons, Elske had assisted one of her past employers in pasting replacement feathers into broken shafts once. Surely with some work she could replicate the process. Bird would look fair ridiculous though.
The white striping on the feather’s shafts was what griped her the most—it indicated a poor diet over an extended period of time. A week or more at least. Either the bird had been lost for that long and couldn’t fend for itself or its master hadn’t known how to properly care for it.
”I can’t right your wing here,” Elske told the squirming bundle of cotton and feather. ”I don’t just bring all my bits with me. But it doesn’t look broken. I won’t jostle it, promise.” Elske chewed the inside of her lip as she worked one side of the shirt up at least to see what the damage specifically was, if she could. She had to pin its wiry legs down lightly with her leg to do it. Would the bird recognize any familiar bird noise if she made it to him? She’d gotten good at imitating a number of animal calls; the endeavor gave her something to do while traveling the wilderness. She couldn’t usually identify the falcons though—they flew too high for her to see, and juveniles had a wide variety of appearances to begin with. She tried one of the commoner grating calls, and the bird ignored her. She tried one that was more of a curling screech. Still no acknowledgment of her efforts.
At last though she tried a smaller chatter, typical to some smaller breed of falcon that she didn’t know the name of, and the bird temporarily paused, head twisting, looking for its kin. Elske grinned. ”Found you,” she murmured, and lightly bound the merlin’s ankles in with the wrists of her shirt, after wrapping the arms of it around its body to secure its wings. The bird’s head she winkled out of one of the ragged holes it had made, and it rewarded her with a slash of its sharp beak across the meat of her thumb. Elske regarded the laceration with a sigh. It would need stitches later. For now her hands were cold enough that it wouldn’t bleed too quickly.
