Wheeling Gull Isle slow down, it’s a science.

her head is raised from under her. accipitra is only vaguely aware of hierophant under her — cross-eyed, she studied the rooted latticework of the den above. 

how many elytras? how many golden wings hid like currency in that dark network?

she gradually reclaims her senses, as if climbing a ladder endless and precipitous. hierophant is stabilizing her. her head is tilted back.

she is looking skyward in the manner of every one of her ancestors. 

instinct seized her — unbidden from her throat comes the booming semblance of her first howl.