The soft snow crunched under the hurried footsteps of a young man. His fur cloak began to whip around more wildly as the gale of the blizzard threatened to hoist his feet off the ground. His eyes darted around for any possible cover against the bruising force of the winds. He looked up once more, towards his goal: a faint blue light sitting ap a spire in the fair distance, like a lighthouse that guided ships and weary travelers. The city of frost, carved into the side of a mountain.
Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The once energetic footsteps slowed as the traveler took one last step forward. Thump. The white tundra began to fade as the traveler’s eyes flickered, his gentle face resting against the deep snow. Creak creak creak, cried the hinges of a rusty lantern. A burly figure approached as the traveler’s eyelids shut.
Warmth. Tingling warmth creeped up the traveler’s fingertips as a gentle flame crackled in the sunken hearth. The traveler’s eyes flickered open, and he scanned the room. Immediately, his hand went to his neck. He felt around his neck until his fingers wrapped around a pendant of a miniature blue wing. “I see you have awoken, child,” said a croaky voice. An elderly woman entered the room, her kind face lit by the soft glow of flame. She handed a wooden bowl of steaming red liquid to the traveler between her wrinkled and cracked hands. “Here, to help with the cold.” The traveler took the bowl, its warmth seeping through his fingers as he stared at his red tinted reflection. With a nod of assurance and a whiff of the sweet smelling liquid, the traveler placed his lips against the bowl. “It’s good.” The traveler commented as the lasting notes of honey left his throat. “The blizzards have been growing more aggressive recently, and barely anyone passes through these lands anymore,” the old woman sighed as she peered out of the frosted window. “It’s not my place to ask of your business, but I hope you will keep an old one like myself company until the storm passes.” The traveler nodded. When was the last story he had heard? Since he was a child perhaps? Regardless, he listened intently with one hand clutched onto his pendants and the other bringing the bowl of sweet liquid to his lips once more.
Snow piled as the blizzard swept by. In a nest, hidden away by the snow and leaves of a great pine tree, were five little eggs. The parents, two snowy owls, huddled for warmth to provide for their unborn children, as they awaited the hatchlings. As the harsh winter reached its peak, the firsegg hatched.
This little white owl was born with a particularly sharp beak and senses more acute than the average. As time passed, it learned to hunt and became quite adept at it too. This first born would often head out and hunt with its father, often bringing back a bountiful hunt. She was titled, "the keen huntress".
Not soon after, the second egg hatched. This little hatchling was not born with anything special in particular, but it did have an aspiration. To fly. To fly higher than the rest of its peers, more quietly than its peers, and more elegantly. As soon as it had the strength, it took leapt and soon became adept at the art of flight, practicing even after its peers had no more strength nor motivation. Through rain and snow and night and day, it would practice, destined for great flight. She was called the “Flightress”.
The third one...We shall get back to it.
The fourth hatching did indeed have keen sense above the average, yet it lacked a prominent beak like its eldest sister. It aspired to follow the footsteps of her, and its father, who were hailed for being particularly good hunters: a head above the rest. Thus it was hailed as "the second coming of the keen".
The fifth hatched as the youngest. It lacked any aspiration, not any particular ability or trait. As a little hatching it was expected not to have an awareness for what it wanted to do. It did however, have an impressive plumage, pure white and speckless ; a cut above the rest. The motherly owls would often dote over it, and so would its friends.
What about the third hatchling you might ask?
Well now. Let’s see...she did not have a special trait, nor aspiration, nor perfect plumage, nor a particularly keen mind. It often felt over-shadowed. Being from such a family, she still had skills above her peers, but only very slightly, incomparable to her family. No one blamed her, but the constant reminding and nagging over lack of responsibility bothered her.
Often feeling overshadowed, she left the village, seeking calm escape, even if only temporary. Through the endless tundra wind of the cold endless night, she heard the imperfections to her flaps, another reminder of her sister's greatness.
Finally, after a long search, she found a lonely pine, not small in particular, but not quite the tallest or noticeable. "Finally, somewhere I can hide in peace." she thought as she landed.
From above, another larger owl landed, two rodents in its beak. It perched a few inches away and began nibbling on one. Its head tilted suddenly, noticing the other owl, and he asked, "what are you doing here? I thought no one knew about this small pine."
"It's...a long story...." she replied.
"I have time," said the other owl, offering its second rodent, "I don’t have anywhere else I’d rather be."
And so, on that fateful pine, the pair conversed.
Just like her, he felt over shadowed. Just like her, his parents nagged. Just like her, he wished for peace. The two had more in common than they had thought and soon became very attached. The pine provided the most sublime location. A safe and hidden location with a burrow of rats right under its trunk. Needless to say, the pair found comfort in each other’s presence. With no desire to return, the two huddled together, wings and feathers interlinked, providing each other with the sweet, sweet warmth needed to hopefully survive.
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