Blood and Feathers: Part 1

Watching as the sun lifted high in the morning sky, Chickadee sharpened his talons on a smooth stone jutting from the side of a cliff looming over a meadow. He wasn’t actually a chickadee; the other eagles gave the name to him. It was meant as an insult, due to his smaller than average size. But he wore it with pride, for it made him unique. It set him apart from the rest.

            However, today was not a day for mirth. Today was a day for war. A hawk had intentionally caused the extinction of a rare species of red furred mouse. While typically, eagles cared not for the plights of rodents, the concept of a species being intentionally wiped out drove them to the cusp of sanity, until their blood boiled in their veins and rage sweltered in their hearts. And so, the eagles declared war on the hawks.

            Taking off from the cliff side, Chickadee soared through the crisp air, his compatriots flying beside him. They numbered ten in total, but despite their numbers and physical advantage, the disease of fear spread through their ranks. They flew through unknown territory, towards an unknown number of enemies. Surely, the hawks knew of the eagle’s advances. It had been the song of the land ever since the eagles had first stated their desire for vengeance.

            Nearing their destination, they banked left into a field of clouds, hoping to mask their encroachment. The element of surprise would mean everything in the upcoming conflict.

            A score of shapes, indistinct in the cloudscape, tore near them. With talons extended, a hawk burst into clear vision, mere wingspans in front of Chickadee. There would be no surprising the enemy today.

“Fight, for the red-furred mouse!” Shouted Chickadee. He grappled with his opponent, seizing the hawk’s wing with his clawed foot and ripping downwards, tearing a gaping hole in the wing’s primary feathers. Letting loose a disgruntled shriek, the hawk fell out of sight.

All around him, his comrades engaged in battle. Though smaller than their adversaries, the hawks more than made up for their small stature with ferocity. Beaks ripped through gullets and claws through wings. Injured bodies fell through the pale cloud cover and towards the earth below.

“I am Red Tail, slayer of your precious mouse!” The cry carried through the din of battle.

Chickadee adjusted his course, turning so that he was directly charging the source of the screech. Swooping at a downward angle, he clipped Red Tail’s wings with the tip of his talons. A trail of blood followed the arc of the cut, but Red Tail didn’t cry out. Rather, she adjusted her course of flight, so that she charged Chickadee head on. With screeches of rage and pain, they collided in a burst of blood and feathers.