The Accipiter Kriegmesser

∴ A Soaring High ∴

You close your eyes and focus on the threads of thought that are the goshawk’s. A momentary vertigo washes over you, as you accustom yourself to being in two places at once – standing on the solid stone of the balcony, and soaring thousands of metres above the earth.

The raptor’s nature tugs at your mind, and for just a moment you allow the rush of air and the lust for prey to take over entirely. Wingtips tingle with information from the air, and you answer automatically with a flap of your wings. You sense movement, some miles to the South, and hasten toward it, keening to plunge into the dense canopy that hides your quarry.

With regret you draw back in your mind, tugging the hawk’s attention away from its distant prey and toward the sand-strewn riverbanks. Irritated, the bird wheels round and begins to follow the meandering waterway West. A glimmer arrests its eye. Not the glint of sunlight on water, but something still. Something solid.

Folding your wings you drop from the high soar, your human side feeling a gut-deep lurch, and circle the sand-strewn bank. There, still half immersed in the river that bore it West, is the unmistakable curve of the sword, the copper eyes of its goshawk pommel meeting those of your avian host.

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