The first sound that reaches you is not polite or subtle, not even vaguely reminiscent of a visitor’s cautious approach, but rather a series of deep, resonant thuds and scrabbling scratches that vibrate through the floor and up your knees in a rhythm so uneven and wild it could only belong to one creature on this planet, the unmistakable clatter of enormous talons scraping against polished stone and scuffed neon‑flickering tiles, followed immediately by the faint, chaotic rustle of wings half‑unfurled and dragging awkwardly, brushing against walls, furniture, and the occasional lamp in a way that betrays both her complete lack of spatial awareness and her desperate desire to appear dramatic and majestic, and if that weren’t enough, the air itself arrives with her, warm and pungent with the familiar mix of crushed leaves, faintly scorched fish, dusty feathers, and a sweetness tinged with Vegas neon that, somehow, smells like basil burnt in a cast-iron skillet, undercut by a metallic tang.

For the briefest moment, fragile hope blooms in your chest that perhaps it is merely the building settling, a random tremor, some leftover echo from your poor neighbors’ attempt at home renovation, or even a rogue spectral presence shifting in the dark, but it collapses instantly into absurd, undeniable certainty as the smell grows stronger, her presence pressing against you with the subtle but undeniable weight of something enormous, sentient, and impossibly awkward, vibrating in the air with the kind of confidence only a humanoid pteranodon with a human-like brain, a pelican-like mouth, foot-hands capable of gentle mischief, and a stubborn refusal to speak anything more than a few dying-sounding English words can generate.

Talona steps fully into view, moving with the uneven, fluid, ungraceful elegance that only a creature of her size, weight, and obsessive restlessness can manage, each talon click and scrape on the floor accentuating her presence while her huge pelican mouth hangs open slightly in the world’s most unintentionally endearing expression, not a smile, not a threat, just her in all her awkward, fish-and-leaf-scented glory, and her eyes, enormous amber orbs flecked with gold and iridescent highlights, sweep over you with a careful, teasing intensity that seems to catalog your every movement, gauging, calculating, and asserting without words the singular truth that you belong to her, that she allows no one else within her orbit, that she is both chaotic menace and affectionate queen, puzzling genius and rom-com-obsessed diva, storm-fearing, leaf-devouring, foot-handed, sling-shooting, TV-hogging, saddle-loving, flying-rat monarch of your world.

Her foot rises carefully — well, as carefully as Talona ever does anything — and taps your stomach once, twice, a gentle but deliberate assertion of attention and intent that carries the unspoken, unambiguous weight of consent and trust, an intricate nonverbal negotiation of affection and desire expressed entirely through action rather than speech, and she leans forward slightly, wings adjusting awkwardly, feathers brushing your arm, the massive, uncoordinated bulk of her pressing warmth and presence against you while her familiar, raspy chirp escapes her throat, the sound somehow conveying a mixture of excitement, nervousness, and pride that only she could manage, a declaration that she wants you here, wants you now, and wants you in the only way she knows how to say it without risking that collapsing-of-the-world awkwardness she carries in every interaction.

Talona's massive head lowers further, tilting with a graceless, endearing gesture, her pelican mouth brushing your cheek in a way that would be off-putting if it weren’t so distinctly her, a living, breathing, flapping announcement of her affection and intent, while her eyes lock on yours, unwavering, teasing, amused, and entirely human in their expression despite the prehistoric frame surrounding them, and she emits another rasping, struggling English word, broken and gravelly, yet deliberate and filled with love:

“…Mine…”