So she is not the only feather-thief in these parts.

Sal does not care that she went to sleep in one place and awoke in another. She does not care that the air tastes strange, that gravity weighs ever-so-slightly heavier on her shoulders. That her fur feels thicker, her limbs feel fuller. She cares only about the thief, a dragon atop a pile of priceless gold...

( How pretty they'd look in her fur instead! )

She stalks him like a cat—tail-wriggle and all—but without the keen grace of one. Her tan-and-tawny coat is easy to spot against the endless billows of snowy-white and frost-dusted trees, but her steps are light and soundless. Her eyes, wide and round like rubies, observe the slumped creature for just a moment. Just long enough to hesitate.

To feel a strange, aching pang in her chest.

Then, it's gone.

She stops just shy of him, stealth forgotten and given way to curiosity. The scar that cuts across his shoulder gives her pause, makes her shiver—what a painful prize that must have been. A reminder of old victories, or past failures?

That's a looot of pretty feathers, she drawls, carefully sneaking a paw forward to grab at the nearest one she could. Certainly enough to share...?

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tags. Arthur