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body div#devskin0 hr { }

1,000 Words

Matthias' PoV

---

“Listen, you can stay, but you've got to stop all this... senseless destruction,” I pulled a sneer, staring down the clumsy harpia chick that had somehow found its way—not only into my home—but into my kitchen and onto the counters. Its bedraggled feathers stuck out at any and all angles. And, for a 'chick', the harpia was already too big to be living indoors. Thing is... this was not my harpia. Still. I hid my concern well enough, mug of morning tea in my hand and my other hand on my hip.
The blondish Stryx fumbled, feet too big for himself, to keep his balance on the edge of the counter. His wings were spread menacingly. Spices covered the entire counter top as well as his face, the back of his head, everything. Opening his beak he hissed. Looked me right in the eyes when he did, too.

I pointed at him. “You are a bad little dragon.”

When I didn't move towards him, he turned his butt to me and broke into another one of the jars on the counter. The ceramic cracked and buckled under the pressure of his thumb, gingersnaps spilling all over his talons along with the remnants of the jar. He easily sorted the food from the inedible shards. And slowly—carefully—I placed my mug on the table and stepped closer to him. He was so absorbed in the treats that, even with my shadow blocking the sunlight from the window, he didn't notice right away.

In a swift movement, I snatched the wrong end of the burlap potato sack and threw it over the invasive Stryx's head, wrapping both arms around him so he couldn't smack me with his wings. An avalanche of potatoes hit the floor, but at this point my kitchen was such a mess... what was two more minutes of cleaning later?

The harpia thrashed. Shrieked. It was an ear-piercing, desperate call for help. No mama ever came, though. He was much lighter than I initially anticipated—and perhaps that explained his ravenous hunger and the fact he was even chewing his way through the burlap—but I dragged him as far as I could and collapsed onto the ground, the harpia still secured in my arms.

“Hey, hey! Cut it out,” I tightened my grip somewhat, trying to swaddle him as best I could. “You're fine. You're fine... I'm not hurting you. Come on, now.”

Though it was several minutes—and several unpleasant scratches to my legs and tears in my breeches—later, the harpia chick, once his beak was free of the burlap, stopped struggling so much. He was panting out of stress, crumbs and spices all over his exposed beak.

Once he was calm, though, it was easier for me to check him for any signs of ownership. No tags. No clipped wings, though I don't think the chick was old enough to fly yet anyways. No anklets either, and I'd already noticed how scrawny and underfed he was. If he was wild, it was brazen of him to have come into a human's house even if the front door was wide open. If he was from a domestic clutch, there was clearly a reason he'd wandered away.

Gently, I loosened my hold on him. He was settled between my knees now, his back against my stomach, and I was steady and quiet while removing the burlap sack just to avoid setting him off again. As the fabric peeled away, he twisted his head to blink at me with a wide, golden eye.

“There. No more nonsense, hear me?”

The little harpia just watched me, tilting his head this way and that. He didn't move away from me at all and with a few fingers, I reached out and rubbed the crest of feathers between his eyes. His lower eyelid lifted happily. He reached up with a claw and scratched his own head after a moment. Petting his own feathers, ruffling them up. But it was this that let me inspect him more carefully. The skin beneath his feathers was scabbed, a little rough, and as he scratched some black flecks fell from him and onto my tunic.

Mites. Or maybe fleas.

Damn it...

“Thanks a lot,” I muttered. Now I'd have to take care of this, too.

Or I could just throw him back outside. Though that seemed... heartless. And my Stryx stalls had been standing empty for quite some time. I still had some training tack left. I still had some patience left... or perhaps I was falling for this chick's obnoxiousness. Not that he could really control whether he was infested with mites and fleas or not.

A quick stop in town would get me what I needed. And in the meanwhile, to stop him from wandering off or destroying more of my things, I could tie him outside... By the shelter of the stalls, obviously.

I used what was left of the gingersnaps to lead the harpia out of the hut and into the yard. He lacked the suspicion most older, wiser, Stryx would have. That meant he was easy to distract, though, and a pile of cookies right by the tie-out did the trick as I fastened the strap to his nearest leg. With that out of the way, I placed a hand atop his head. Immediately I snapped my hand away—regret—and brushed it off. It just felt dusty.

“You sit tight. Eat all the cookies. I'll be back with... something better for you.”
And with those final words, I shouldered my bag and started walking in the direction of town. In my head, I was counting coins. So long since my last odd job, I had very little left. Most of my survival rested on doing favours for others, or hunting and fishing for myself. Keeping non-perishables. I listed things I would need to care for a Stryx that would grow into a sizable harpia eventually. After all, if I was serious about keeping the troublesome creature... there were expenses to consider. But I was already dreaming up names for him, too. Good, strong names. We would make this work.

Description
body div#devskin0 hr { }

1,000 Words

Matthias' PoV

---

“Listen, you can stay, but you've got to stop all this... senseless destruction,” I pulled a sneer, staring down the clumsy harpia chick that had somehow found its way—not only into my home—but into my kitchen and onto the counters. Its bedraggled feathers stuck out at any and all angles. And, for a 'chick', the harpia was already too big to be living indoors. Thing is... this was not my harpia. Still. I hid my concern well enough, mug of morning tea in my hand and my other hand on my hip.
The blondish Stryx fumbled, feet too big for himself, to keep his balance on the edge of the counter. His wings were spread menacingly. Spices covered the entire counter top as well as his face, the back of his head, everything. Opening his beak he hissed. Looked me right in the eyes when he did, too.

I pointed at him. “You are a bad little dragon.”

When I didn't move towards him, he turned his butt to me and broke into another one of the jars on the counter. The ceramic cracked and buckled under the pressure of his thumb, gingersnaps spilling all over his talons along with the remnants of the jar. He easily sorted the food from the inedible shards. And slowly—carefully—I placed my mug on the table and stepped closer to him. He was so absorbed in the treats that, even with my shadow blocking the sunlight from the window, he didn't notice right away.

In a swift movement, I snatched the wrong end of the burlap potato sack and threw it over the invasive Stryx's head, wrapping both arms around him so he couldn't smack me with his wings. An avalanche of potatoes hit the floor, but at this point my kitchen was such a mess... what was two more minutes of cleaning later?

The harpia thrashed. Shrieked. It was an ear-piercing, desperate call for help. No mama ever came, though. He was much lighter than I initially anticipated—and perhaps that explained his ravenous hunger and the fact he was even chewing his way through the burlap—but I dragged him as far as I could and collapsed onto the ground, the harpia still secured in my arms.

“Hey, hey! Cut it out,” I tightened my grip somewhat, trying to swaddle him as best I could. “You're fine. You're fine... I'm not hurting you. Come on, now.”

Though it was several minutes—and several unpleasant scratches to my legs and tears in my breeches—later, the harpia chick, once his beak was free of the burlap, stopped struggling so much. He was panting out of stress, crumbs and spices all over his exposed beak.

Once he was calm, though, it was easier for me to check him for any signs of ownership. No tags. No clipped wings, though I don't think the chick was old enough to fly yet anyways. No anklets either, and I'd already noticed how scrawny and underfed he was. If he was wild, it was brazen of him to have come into a human's house even if the front door was wide open. If he was from a domestic clutch, there was clearly a reason he'd wandered away.

Gently, I loosened my hold on him. He was settled between my knees now, his back against my stomach, and I was steady and quiet while removing the burlap sack just to avoid setting him off again. As the fabric peeled away, he twisted his head to blink at me with a wide, golden eye.

“There. No more nonsense, hear me?”

The little harpia just watched me, tilting his head this way and that. He didn't move away from me at all and with a few fingers, I reached out and rubbed the crest of feathers between his eyes. His lower eyelid lifted happily. He reached up with a claw and scratched his own head after a moment. Petting his own feathers, ruffling them up. But it was this that let me inspect him more carefully. The skin beneath his feathers was scabbed, a little rough, and as he scratched some black flecks fell from him and onto my tunic.

Mites. Or maybe fleas.

Damn it...

“Thanks a lot,” I muttered. Now I'd have to take care of this, too.

Or I could just throw him back outside. Though that seemed... heartless. And my Stryx stalls had been standing empty for quite some time. I still had some training tack left. I still had some patience left... or perhaps I was falling for this chick's obnoxiousness. Not that he could really control whether he was infested with mites and fleas or not.

A quick stop in town would get me what I needed. And in the meanwhile, to stop him from wandering off or destroying more of my things, I could tie him outside... By the shelter of the stalls, obviously.

I used what was left of the gingersnaps to lead the harpia out of the hut and into the yard. He lacked the suspicion most older, wiser, Stryx would have. That meant he was easy to distract, though, and a pile of cookies right by the tie-out did the trick as I fastened the strap to his nearest leg. With that out of the way, I placed a hand atop his head. Immediately I snapped my hand away—regret—and brushed it off. It just felt dusty.

“You sit tight. Eat all the cookies. I'll be back with... something better for you.”
And with those final words, I shouldered my bag and started walking in the direction of town. In my head, I was counting coins. So long since my last odd job, I had very little left. Most of my survival rested on doing favours for others, or hunting and fishing for myself. Keeping non-perishables. I listed things I would need to care for a Stryx that would grow into a sizable harpia eventually. After all, if I was serious about keeping the troublesome creature... there were expenses to consider. But I was already dreaming up names for him, too. Good, strong names. We would make this work.