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06-10-2012, 12:34 PM
The snow had melted. This was not strange in and of itself, the young gryphon knew. With the warmest turnings of the moon came the gradual retreat of even the most stubborn snow drifts. Yet she was fairly certain that the gradually softening of the tundra was not normal. Some was certainly expected for the grasses to grow and life to flourish... but this seemed a bit much.
Just how much it was warming was impossible for her to know, since her body was forever wrapped in the chill of winter, the cold touch extending out from her beyond even the reach of her longest pinion feathers. It affected the tundra, giving solidity to that which lay beneath her paws and talons. So much so that she rarely lingered in one place too long, lest her never-ending winter throw off the rhythms of the seasons too far and keep the grasses from growing.
Yet for now she was settled, carefully perched in the tangled branches of a stunted tree, dead but too stubborn to let go of the ground. This was a favored spot of hers, and she'd cultivated it over the winter and into spring. Using careful snips of her beak to prune away prodding twigs, employing greener limbs from evergreens away in the south to weave an immense nest into the windblown head of this tree. Now she was certain that her presence would not destroy her perch here.
But still she pondered the situation of the tundra, laying in her nest with golden eyes focused away to the south. Wondering. What was going on in the lands of the horses? Had something terrible happened yet again? It was tempting to discover what.
Just how much it was warming was impossible for her to know, since her body was forever wrapped in the chill of winter, the cold touch extending out from her beyond even the reach of her longest pinion feathers. It affected the tundra, giving solidity to that which lay beneath her paws and talons. So much so that she rarely lingered in one place too long, lest her never-ending winter throw off the rhythms of the seasons too far and keep the grasses from growing.
Yet for now she was settled, carefully perched in the tangled branches of a stunted tree, dead but too stubborn to let go of the ground. This was a favored spot of hers, and she'd cultivated it over the winter and into spring. Using careful snips of her beak to prune away prodding twigs, employing greener limbs from evergreens away in the south to weave an immense nest into the windblown head of this tree. Now she was certain that her presence would not destroy her perch here.
But still she pondered the situation of the tundra, laying in her nest with golden eyes focused away to the south. Wondering. What was going on in the lands of the horses? Had something terrible happened yet again? It was tempting to discover what.
