Leaves swirl in spiralling eddies, whispering in breathless rustles across the earth. They dance one after the other, only to fall limply to the ground - and then the next, and then the next, disturbed by updrafts of air overhead. Moving updrafts, one heavy drumbeat and then another. And in the canopy boughs dipped and swayed, twigs and lesser branches creaking as something pushed past - something large and powerful and forceful, barrelling through with wings outstretched -

He must have been here for hours. Most of the forest was no more than overgrown path - inaccessible to him, of course. His wingspan is too large for those tiny little passageways, wherever they led. The sky is still closed to him here, and even he cannot struggle free; the sharp bark would only cut his wings to ribbons and, for that, he doesn't dare try. This is the largest glade he has seen so far and he is reluctant to leave it, his wings able to stretch out here where they are unable to elsewhere. It are too cramped here, too restrictive, and Noitcerru's mood is suffering for it.  

Noitcerru is not built for land such as this. He is ploughing through the forest regardless - it wasn't like he has a choice - but even as the stallion forges his way through there is ample resistance. The very branches themselves hold him back, gnarled old hands with their fingers outstretched ready to pull on a feather and drag back a wing; the fog obscuring risks until they are centimetres from his face.  

And all around - noises. Once the stallion hears something that he could have sworn was a nicker, but it is gone before he had been able to turn around, the sound already fading into the quiet of the forest around him. The very foliage itself seems to muffle sound, to drag in every last noise and leave a vacuum of inhales and exhales and breath. He hears little but the beat of his own wings, that dual pulse that serves as the constant, never ceasing baseline for his own existence.  

He is not to be caged.  

And yet he finds himself being so. All he has is the broader parts of the passage to go by, such as the larger space in which he finds himself now. Enjoying the space this glade gives him the stallion casts a glance above. No - he can't rise here, can't possibly skim over this forest as he wishes. Not now, with the lace-like netting of further branches and leaves hemming him in. He grits his teeth. Coming here was a mistake, and one he is paying for now dearly.

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