[Gift] Quilla's Hunt

Mayhem. Absolute mayhem in the orchard.

The Chicken Snaketails scattered among the fallen apples and dried leaves. Their hurried steps crunched and their tails hissed as they dragged along the ground.

Behind them, in hot pursuit, was Quilla. Her scarred maw opened and snapped, sharp teeth narrowly missing her sprightly prey. There was no frustration in her green eyes, only thrill and anticipation, the joy of the hunt.

From the safety of the boughs of the trees, Quercus watched Quilla chase, kicking up her own share of leaves. Clawed feet tore across the carpet of decay, and she shot like a bright star across the shade-dappled ground, a comet whose glittering trail was, instead, a terrific bit of chaos.

Quilla’s prey came to the foot of Quercus’s tree and scrambled up to safety. It settled on a limb, breathing heavily, while Quilla began a clumsy sort of climb herself, long ears twitching, and the metallic scythe wings at her back fanning like a halo. Quercus took the opportunity to look at them: the mottled sheen of rusting reds and greens, blended beneath an elegant pattern of swirling leaves. From high above, he hadn’t noticed the green leaves at her collar or on the tail thrashing behind her, growing on thin vines out of her thick velveteen and feathered scales.

Quercus took Quilla’s focus for granted. She was in pursuit of the Chicken Snaketail and surely wouldn’t be dissuaded from the likes of him from another branch, a spectator to the sport.

However, as Quilla pulled herself onto a limb and shook out her scales — white with heavy patches of black, red, and orange — her gaze turned to him. And oh, what a terrible smile pulled at the edges of her torn mouth.

This close, Quercus saw the metallic flourishes, liker her wings, on her face, on her delicate wrists much more clearly. He wanted to really look at her.

He was not so smitten, though, that when she pounced towards him, he did not flee. He dropped off the branch as her teeth snapped at the thin air where he had been a mere second before, falling towards the ground before opening his wings to cushion the landing at the last moment.

Quilla, without a moment’s hesitation, jumped after him, her fall slowed as her wings fanned out, legs moving in the air as if she were swimming.

Quercus, despite himself, laughed, and took off again at all speed before her feet touched the ground. His heart beat a heavy, quick rhythm in his chest, his head spinning as he heard Quilla only feet behind him at most. It was fantastically exciting: the sound of her breathing and her feet striking the earth; the fear of her teeth, her claws, her horns; and the strain on his body as if every simple movement must be absolutely precise.

He knew — or, he was fairly certain — that Quilla wouldn’t actually harm him in any significant way if he was caught. He wasn’t prey; at most, he was a chewtoy. But it was fun to pretend. And fun to think that he could get the upper hand.

Quercus shot upwards and twisted his body, bringing his wings in as Quilla began to pass below him. He made a sound meant for their ears alone as he flipped over her, intending to fall onto her, to go from prey to pursuer.

But Quilla skidded to a stop and would have stopped sooner, if not for the loose leaves beneath her. Her haunches coiled as she reared up, then she launched herself into the air.

Her teeth closed around Quercus, surprisingly gentle though no less sharp, cushioning him as they fell back to earth.