Aleen the Winged

He sat up high on the hill above the city of Ilandia  His six foot wingspan had been closed and wrapped securely around him more for warmth than stealth and concealment. He sat alone, disliking being near the others who were  mostly newlings out for their first hunt and kill mission. They were all several hundred feet below  him babbling about how lucky they had been too fly with such a  master.

“Master,” he snarled to himself after overhearing one of their comments. “What do they know of Masters. They are too young to know the virtues of such as Anloch the Strong who took out a thousand Betweens on a day many called ‘Judgement Day.'” He snorted and tightened the grip of his wings upon his body.

“Still strong,” he looked down at himself, at the muscle structure of his arms. “After all these years, still strong,” he sniffed in pleasure and recalled his first mission.

“They are missionaries,” Anloch had said in a snarl, his gargoyle like face close to Aleen’s. “Kill them swifty, little one. Surprise those of your kind larger than you. Surprise them at your strength and keep in mind,” his voice dropped low and his lips touched Aleen’s ear, “there will come a day when you will have to kill them too.”

 

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