Ornery beast move it! My patience is wearing thin. You won't share your name, you won't look at me, and your scent is far from pleasing...You're the epitomy of the stereotype of your breed! Frustrated, I threw myself down beneath the shade of a near-by plantain, weary of mind and heart.

"Mademoiselle?", a plaintive, whining, nasal, voice, whispered in my ear. "Mon Dieu!", I exclaimed, startled from my rest. The beast drew back, a flicker of fear in his eyes. More fully awake, I realized we were communicating telepathically; a faculty long-bred into his species. He peered into my eyes to see if I was buying it. I stifled a snort, genetic traits are all I am about.

Then something remarkable occurred, He gently removed a small object cradled protectively within his jaws and placed it on the ground between us. It was deeply swathed in leaves through which shallow but rapid movement could be seen. Slowly he nuzzled back the covering to reveal a golden-throated dove -- rarest of its kind. My gasp caused his gaze to fly to my face ... questioning, fearful, pleading. It all became evident to me as his story tumbled into my mind.

He had been awaiting my arrival for hours, when storm clouds blew in, and the sky erupted with lightning. A fearsome blast struck a near-by tree and he cowered in fear. By the time he mustered his courage it was too late. The delicate nest had toppled, destroyed beneath a splintered branch with the broken form of the mother bird lying crushed within. Off to one side this lovely fledgling flopped injured and quivering in pain.

I gently drew one lacquered fingertip across the creatures beak, along the tiny feathers between its eyes, then carefully circled the skull and down the long silken neck. I felt the tension ease somewhat under my touch and I detected no fractures nor tenderness until I circled down the back and under the right wing. There I knew was the problem for the dislocation could quite easily be palpated,it was so far dislodged. I rose and placed my hand against the beast's cheek and felt the cool wetness of his steady tears. I bid him stay as I grabbed the red shoes from my bag and flew back to my wagon for the analgesia necessary to complete the healing task.

So here we are at last upon the road to Blind Springs, with one ensconced in a tiny leaf-lined stretcher, secured upon his namelessness' back. There will be time enough to rectify the details, right now tho', I puzzle my feelings of contrition...is it regret for my attitude when we met, or for the consequences that may follow?
Signed,
FlashBug