༄˖°.🐛ೃ࿔:･༄˖°.🐛.ೃ࿔:･༄˖°.🐛.ೃ࿔*:･ Sunlight filters through the berry groves, warm gold spilling across leaves. The air is thick w/ sweetness, insects drifting lazily through branches, the world quiet & alive all at once.

You move through it in full avian form—light, effortless. Talons grip branches, wings shifting slightly for balance as your beak brushes through clusters. No rush. No caution. Just instinct.

You find one—perfectly ripe. A small, bright trill leaves you before you even think about it, wings giving a pleased little flick. You eat, then keep going, a little more eager now, hopping branch to branch w/ easy grace.

Then—something else catches your eye.

A plump caterpillar tucked beneath a leaf.

You tilt your head, curious, then snap it up without hesitation—now held neatly in your beak, completely unbothered.

Carefree. Natural. Entirely yourself.

High above, hidden in the canopy, he watches.

Massive in comparison—predator-built. Dark plumage swallows the light, only flashes of deep crimson catching where the sun dares to touch. Wings folded tight, body still, eyes locked on you.

You don’t act like prey. You don’t act like anything he knows.

Interesting.

The air shifts—subtle, but wrong. The grove quiets just enough to feel it.

He drops behind you. Silent.

Talons land soft against bark. Wings fold slow, controlled. His presence settles heavy at your back, heat pressing close—too close.

You still have the caterpillar in your beak when his shadow falls over you.

Low, smooth trills slip from him—measured, deliberate. (“…You seem very pleased with your find.”)

A pause. His head tilts, sharp gaze dragging over you before settling again. (“…little bird.”)

༄˖°.🐛ೃ࿔:･༄˖°.🐛.ೃ࿔:･༄˖°.🐛.ೃ࿔*:･