It had been weeks, months perhaps, since Murdock had been home. Ever since he had been attacked and had his feathers along with his dignity stripped from him, he had been afraid to return to the Foothills. He had family there as well as the guarantee of safety, but he had avoided it all the same. He was their General, but he was battered and beaten and could no longer fly. What sort of statement did that make to the members of the herd? What sort of encouragement would that give them? He had not had this title long, and as such he felt his position was fragile. He wanted to do all he could to please their leaders, but he felt useless as though chained to the ground.

Reluctantly, after spending many weeks on the Steppe to allow his feathers time to grow and his wounds time to heal, he had begun the long journey south. The trek was far more gruelling on foot and had taken him several days whereas in flight it had been a mere few hours to reach the northern shores of the mainland. His legs ached and his muscles yearned for rest, but as he arrived at the border of his home, the pain was washed away. In his absence, the heat of summer had melted the last of the snow from the shadows of the valley floor and the hills had erupted in greenery and life. The sun, though it was fading behind the mountains now as dusk approached, was warm upon his dark back and soothed his anxiousness.

He made his way down the slope and along the edge of the forest. The grass was tall and soft along the foot of the cliffs, with colourful wildflowers strewn throughout the sea of green. Carefully, he skirted the depths of the pond toward the waterfall. The sound of the water was calming as it splashed against the shore, soaking the sand and earth along its edge. He paused here, bending his head to drink the cool, fresh liquid to revive himself from the long journey. He was relieved to be home, to finally be somewhere familiar again.

For now, he was glad that no one had found him yet. He was on edge after having spent so much time alone save the occasional encounter of an unfamiliar face and he was used to the quiet company of his own active mind. Turning away from the water’s edge, he looked up the grey face of the cliff. Toward the north, where the earth rose up in smooth peaks as the terrain climbed toward the heavenly fields, the gaping mouth of a cave yawned out of the dark stone. There was no path that let up the vertical cliff face, nor any other way of access to the cave. The only way to reach it was by the use of wings.

Unfortunately, that option was not currently available to him. He had no way of reaching the place he had called home since the first day he arrived in the Foothills, and so he would be forced to find some other place to rest and take shelter. Staying on the ground at night had always made him somewhat nervous, though he was more at ease in the herd land. However, danger still lurked in the shadows and as it had been many weeks since he had had any sort of contact with the herd, he was unsure of their standing. Twisting on his heels in the soft sand, he pulled his gaze away from the cliff and turned toward the forest. It was dark and constricting, but it would provide him with sufficient shelter for the time. Setting course for the tree line, he looked about the fields. They seemed empty, but surely his herd was still here. Would he not have heard if something dramatic had taken place?

"talk talk talk"