Ka’Ora is gentle; Ka’Ora loves. She croons to the child as her shadow guides the young thing through the night, making sure she makes it over the borders of the Edge, weaving her through the potential dangers of moonrise. She is encouraging, kind. She is reminded forcefully of the younger sister Macaria, her sweet, sweet little ‘Cari, and her breast swells proud and sad as she regards the child beneath her boldly facing the challenges of her father. Ka’Ora’s claws are sharp and ready to protect, should the occasion arise for her protection—but the trip is smooth, Ka’Mate is busy, and soon they see master himself framed by wreaths of moonlight in a familiar meadow of thistles. She alights on her master’s wither, her powerful wingbeats careful and quiet upon her master’s back. She regards Oizys with mild eyes, and awaits master’s appraisal.

Reginald turns to see his child; it is a foal he sees, of course, yet the undeniable swell of growth has graced her, giving her a chest too large, a face too heavy, hooves too wide and knees too bulbous for her frame. All of these things are good, for they are foundations of a large frame, and there must be time given for her to grow into it. She is sound.

As for her coat, it remains long and ugly with winter thickness—but she is not at fault for a course of nature. Neither is she at fault for the one white hoof that mars what would have otherwise been a perfect hide. Even and plain, her face and legs darkening into an acceptable gradient, her mane and tail appropriately dark and uniform, her eyes an interesting, welcome contrast to even out her features. He decides she is not ugly. To tar that white hoof would be an overreaction indeed; she is fine enough.

He studies the line of her back (oh yes, he does spot the eaglet on her rump, though he will get to that in due time) and the muscle there, the infantine muscle that ropes about her spine. His eyes spot her horns—growing into three wicked spears upon her brow. He notices how her tail grows, the girth that begins to swell in its growth, and he can imagine a great whip of a tail in due time. What he sees, in short, is the bud of a monster in all her glory standing before him, so short and small and helpless still before the harpy’s claws.

Father, she calls him. She presents herself.

He is pleased. So much more so after his visit up north, with his newest child, Bathsheba. He is pacified by the appearance of his eldest being so right, so according to his plot, fitting so ideally within the images of his grandest daydreams. It eases the disappointment of his northbound child; she saves the plot.

“Oizys,” he says by way of greeting. He regards her a moment longer, then turns his gaze back upon the field laid out before them, swathed in the shadow of night, in the light of the moon. He does not reveal his immense pleasure at the pitiful pile of feathers sitting across her back, something young, something familiar. He remembered how horrid and ugly his own harpies had been (Ka’Ora shifts at these thoughts), and yet look how they turned out: large, regal, vicious, obedient. He had not even commanded such a feat for his young daughters, and yet his eldest has surpassed his expectations so quickly, so young. She has found something with flight; she has found something with ferocity.

“What is its name?” he asks without turning around. Let’s see how she speaks to her Father.


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