Rolling bluffs, mighty cascades and those disordered foothills become a far-off memory; the terrain contorts, mutating into a snarling tier of ridges and towering alps. The air becomes biting, every breath is filled with a charged, frosty tinge. I graze the bare trunks of distant pinnacles, their faces rise to an impossible height and their thrones sit above the world, watching the small folk as we mill onward. Gnarled currents quarrel with my spring-tide coat, tangling and disrupting. Feathers tighten guardedly – I’ve weathered far worse, but those twisted, darkened trails in the past weren’t skewed with the fog of uncertainty.

I couldn’t help but drink in the plague of doubt as it mists my mind. Where is he leading us? Irises forsake the ridge-line, pivoting instead to inspect our cloth adorned guide. Mistrust breeds sour emotions; nostrils flare, snorting free a wispy miasma. These ears crane backward, listening for the caboose of our train. Noah...I think to glance rearward...to sink into the quiet, stern company he has offered. But as the sun disappears, the temperatures tumble; bearable air turns uncomfortably cool against my warm, travel beaten body. Optics flick warily to a sinister sky.

While that heavenly barrage becomes savage - crackling and roaring - beneath the ground, the mountain strives to have a heartbeat. The false pulse trembles with labor pains as though the rocky loam was contracting.

"Monsieur," I strain, mindful of my instinct to recoil from unnecessary notice, "sommes-nous proches?" Unfortunate timing places my voice under down stroke of a thunderclap; that soft inquiry would likely go unnoticed. Confirmation comes half a heartbeat later when he lifts his dark baritone above the noise. I crane forward, attempting to comprehend…but none of that rapid, windblown jargon can pierce the invisible barrier. He quickens into the next slope – I press on, pushing to keep up. Unfortunately, it isn’t long before the terrain takes a sharp curve upward and loose bits of gravel are sliding out beneath me.

Lungs pant, sucking gulps of thin air. My focus dares a glance upward to orientate, scanning for his (or Noah's) familiar, murky frame against the distant outcrop. That brief slip of concentration is tallied -- my right foreleg oversights. It jerks out in front, the sudden offset in balance ushers me into a sloppy bow. Teeth click together, effectively muffling my startled cry. While my left knee grinds painfully against the bedrock, the right becomes my crutch. Wings unfurl, lending their support. Lips unhinge, allowing my cry to emerge in the form of a hiss and gasp while these lungs claw for breath. Rocking, I lean backwards and right myself. Grunting and straining. Throbbing heat washes my wound and pain is swift to follow. I pause, holding fast.

My snout drops, flaring against the quivering cut(s). Faintly, I can smell blood…

Panic seethes, gashing figurative teeth. Optics flash up, glimpsing the distant frame of assumption (and hope) when the lightening creates a false, blue daylight. Though resentful and anguished, these forelimbs respond with a dull willingness to press onward -- and so I do.

@Noah