Wheeling Gull Isle Some feathers I stole from the birds

it me, melee.

the world changed suddenly, but it hadn't the words or understanding to describe how. it felt only wrongness. it mewled in angry defiance, kicking its tiny limbs to try to find the comfort that had surrounded it only minutes before. this instinctual strategy seemed to work; it was moved by some external force closer to what it knew as comfort. not the same as it was used to, but familiar... and a sensation it would someday describe as smell or taste awoke another instinct, as the mewling firstborn rooted for sustenance.