Noctisardor Bypass storms in africa

Shoot, I need to work on some new metaphors, LOL.

The bird countered with a growl (of a sort) which then tapered into a hiss that made the fur along Druid’s spine prickle with instinctive wariness. She drew back but only a few inches, otherwise standing her ground as she considered whether to bark again or, perhaps, move closer.

Now Sequoia coaxed her to get on with it. Druid tipped her head almost ninety degrees to peer up at her mother questioningly. Did she mean it? Heartened by the adult’s encouragement, emboldened by it, she crept toward the unhappy young falcon.

It remained very, very still as the pup encroached, though Druid eventually breached some invisible line in the sand and it set off the raptor’s final outburst. It danced and flapped wildly, spinning in circles. It let out a screech the likes of which would leave Druid’s ears ringing for hours afterward.

But then it stopped. Although Druid was no practiced hunter, she possessed the instinctual knowledge of the ages. Sensing that this was her chance to take advantage of her quarry’s vulnerability, she sprang. Her small paws came down on the broken wing, pinning the falcon and earning a garbled complaint and a halfhearted twitch.

It seemed the falcon was all done in and Druid loomed, lips peeling back to bare her tiny teeth as she dug them into the joint where the wing met the breast. Soft feathers touched her tongue, then hot, wet blood. Her jaw clenched harder and she began to shake the dying bird like a rag doll.