There is freedom to be felt, soaring high through the skies. To be granted the right to float alongside the clouds is a gift. Right?
Wrong.
To the grounders, maybe it all sounds like a dream... one that cannot be fulfilled. But for those that can actually take to the skies, it is a curse.
Weak, are they. Dependent on their wings to advert an unseemly death from those that would wish it upon them. Or more realistically, those that want to rip away their feathers and eat them. On the ground, there is no safety. The skies are not in fact their freedom, but their prison. And not all take kindly to being imprisoned.
It is a hot day, this one. A day in which forces Sceledrus, one of the more veteran flighted creatures, to seek a low‐branched tree for a much needed rest. Wings flopped tiredly beside himself, he observes the ground with an idle stare.
What grounders may stumble upon him this day? A hooved beast, wandering the wrong path? Some random lunatic he has no care for? Or perhaps that coyote, @Tumbleweed, that for some reason holds an odd interest in his presence? But hey—why should he complain? The idiot brings him such an easy meal, day after day. He needn't even fight for it, as no others hover near to vye for the scraps. Inching further along the branch now, he is suddenly brimmed with a hungered hope.
The jackrabbit had nearly given him the slip- and he knew when he killed it that it might be tougher than the others. A wiry creature, having outrun many predators in its time, it was well-suited for a life in the desert where it would have to use every last one of its wits to help it survive. In places, it had scars and there was a sage, wiry look to its expression, even as it passed away in his grasp. The old boxer could finally stop fighting today- and its body would fulfill its final purpose.
He panted in the heat as he returned to the Oasis, to spot a familiar, dark figure on a branch. "You're early," He thought with a tired, but wry smile. It wasn't like the bird would agree- birds were on their own schedule. He set the jackrabbit down, but rather than simply walking away from it, he kept a paw on it and squinted up at the raven-feathered creature.
"I got a bargain to make with you," He proposed.
Indeed they do. The little coyote. And he brings lunch!
With a raspy, drawn out hiss, his wings expand wide, carrying him downward toward the ground.
If they had something to say, they could do so while he ate.
Ye' talk. I eat.
The vulture grunts, inching his beak closer toward the limp creature. Unless the coyote stopped him, he would eagerly snatch away the meal and proceed to dig in while the grand speech was given.
He noted the breadth of the vulture's wingspan with an admiring gaze, noting that here and there the feathers were uneven, causing him to wonder if perhaps they'd been plucked out, or moulted. He knew little of birds, but wished to know more, even if only by observation. This one, however, seemed content to communicate though he found it brazen, and its manners lacking.
He lowered his head and clicked his teeth together to discourage the vulture's bold ambitions. "I've fed you all week," He chastised. "You listen, then you eat. You know that I can provide again, I'll make it worth your time." He assured the feathered creature, meeting the dark, glistening beads of his gaze evenly. He'd been more than charitable, and felt it was time to ask for something in return.
He had hoped for such easy pickings, but it was not made to be this way today. Not like the other days.
When the coyote's teeth snapped, the vulture replied only with vocally guttural caw, wings flapping against the air facing them. But he didn't advance again for the food, fixating an even, glum stare upon the canine.
They would have to speak fast, or there would be a fight over the rabbit. He was hungry.
A moment of silence, a gesture of willingness. Tumbleweed's answer was swift, but so simple it could be spoken without any rush. He gave a grateful nod to the scavenger, who seemed to be relatively short on patience for one who waited for predators to clear out before feasting. Not a bad thing- it meant he wasn't as lazy as others.
"I feed you, you stash gems for me high up where other wolves can't get it- covered, so crows won't steal them too." He said. After all, he knew corvids had a keen eye for shiny things. "Bring them back at my request, and you get fed again. Fresh or rotten, however you like it." He tilted his head to the side, eyebrow raised. He took his foot off the jackrabbit and stepped back, but kept a wary eye on the vulture.
If he ate, then he accepted the deal. If he took it and left, there'd only be one meal lost. Tumbleweed was a fair and trustworthy partner, and had to invest his trust somewhere.
While thought the greedy vulture seemed to listen, he was only half attentive. Stash gems. Get food. Essentially, such was all he heard. But that was all he needed to hear.
Swiping away the jackrabbit, he ran the tip of his beak along the flesh, slicing it clean open as to have better access to the warm meat inside. Before taking a bite, he glanced momentarily towards the coyote. I find tree soon.. then make nest.
It was an uncommon thing for his kind, but it would only ensure the gems' safe‐keeping.
When the coyote heard his words, Scel would return full attention upon his meal.
Tumbleweed was impressed. Birds were even more intelligent than he'd figured, and more cooperative as well. He'd feed the bird to keep him around and willing to help out, so long as the vulture kept his word as well.
He let the bird feast, empathetic to how difficult it must be for him to find fresh food. Certainly, he seemed to enjoy a fresh, warm meal, but leftovers- bits and scraps of tendons and gristle would have been what he typically ate. He would enjoy seeing the vulture thrive under his care, and as a part of the trades that he and Widower would begin to establish.
"You'll do fine, my friend," He said. Realizing that the term might not be terribly welcome just yet, he asked only one more question. "What name should I call you by?"