Heron Lake Plateau you're a time bomb, baby

The birds after which Raven and Quixote’s thirdborn had been named were incredibly agile flyers, with sleek, cutting wings perfect for executing impossibly clever acrobatics. They could turn on a dime, right themselves with a mere wingflick.

Their namesake? Not so much.

Kite was a particularly light sleeper when it came to tactile stimuli; even the smallest changes in temperature or pressure tended to jolt her awake. She’d been nestled against the hard angle of Raven’s elbow — her preference, for the gentle mother had probably tried to find her something softer to curl into — and the slight shift of sensation engendered when Raven leaned to right Vasa sent Kite spiraling into an awake, aware state. Her little head popped up and looked blindly around, wobbling unsteadily and keening, soft, long cries that started high and loud and decrescendoed.

If someone was having an adventure, she wanted in on it!

Her first order of business was to try to scale the speedbump that was Raven’s foreleg, and she grunted as she extended one wildly trembling paw, then another, before she toppled over onto her side. The impact wasn’t particularly violent, but it seemed to stun her briefly before she began trying to right herself. It’s just — how to do the sternal? She kicked and scrabbled, quavering more with each attempt.