Pointy Air-Birds (May 3010) - [One-Shot]
May 10, 2018 13:25:49 GMT -5
Post by Buruu Zam Ükher on May 10, 2018 13:25:49 GMT -5
The grass, greener than it had been on his steppe, tasted sweet. Ükher stomped a hoof happily as he took a step forward, following his nose along the plain. The bull could yet taste the sweetness of the newest water falling, and he chuffed a pleasant sound as he continued to chew.
His great head lifted, large, long horns framing his pleasant face as he looked over the rolling hills of this strange place. He could hear something; fast-hooves. He knew the sound of their gait, the way they darted over the land as if they had wings like the feathered friends Ükher had back home.
He stopped chewing, forcing himself to swallow as he shifted his weight between his legs. It was coming over the hills; the pace was not a fast-hoof’s quickest step. Perhaps there was time to run the other way. Ükher could come back to graze later, when the fast-hoof was gone.
Yet, it was already too late. Up on the hill Ükher could see it now; the fast-hoof was brown, splotched in white a lot like himself, and how he remembered his Eejee Ükher being. Unlike them, though, this creature had no horns. The breeze blew its hair, and it snorted and made that familiar sound. Higher than the bull’s calls.
Upon his back was one of the bipedals.
Ükher stood completely still. Perhaps they would think him a tree if he did not move and he did not moo; his horns were like branches.
The bipedal did not have a kind face; it was pointy and slimy, and looked very much unlike even the ones called hunters back home. His bipedal, the one with long white hair and kind eyes, was far kinder in appearance than even the hunters he knew. This bipedal was frightening.
Ükher’s ears flicked nervously, and it ruined his disguise.
The bipedal dropped from his mount pulling from the back of the fast-hoof a curved branch and a handful of the pointy air-birds. The bipedal was speaking to him, maybe; or perhaps his fast-hoof. Ükher could not understand, nor could he hear, though his eyes went wide, and ringed in white.
He did not know what to do, save make the man stop. “Mooooo!” He bellowed, a warning, a plea. He did not want to take the long sleep; the bull had not found his bipedal yet.
Hopping, thunder trailing his hooves, Ükher kicked his hind legs from the ground, snorting. The fast-hoof sidestepped, moving away from the bipedal he had borne upon his back, a sound wickering from his throat.
“Good meat on you,” the bipedal croaked. Now the bull could hear him. Still his words were wrong, and he could not understand.
Ükher did not like the sound of the words, though. The bipedal seemed tired, his voice coarse and harried as if from overuse. It sounded mean, just like the bipedals that came on the fast-hooves sometimes back on the steppe.
He did not want to take the sleep, he did not want the pointy air-birds to bite. Ükher charged forward, bowing his head low.
Ükher felt the pointy air-bird fly, its song a whistle as it shot past his ear. He had felt the wind; so close to being bitten! So close to the long sleep! “Moooo!” He said, the sound like the rumble of the invisible herd. The fast-hoof moved, rearing up upon its back legs and thrusting them out and down. Ükher did not mind, he paid it no heed. He had to stop the branch from sending more birds; and his persistence made the fast-hoof run away further. “Moooo!” He exclaimed once more.
“Confounded beast!” The bipedal spat, though was not quite fast enough. Ükher dipped his head, and with a twist of his great horns, sent the bipedal flying. Something caught upon his horn, though, and as the bipedal screamed, the bull sought to shake it free.
“No—no, that’s mine, you overgrown—” The bipedal’s words seemed weak, and Ükher wondered if it were another language, for so many gusts of air were puncturing through the speech that it did not sound the same.
Something hit Ükher’s face; whatever was on his horn was swinging, moving slowly up his horn as he thrashed. “Mooo!” He uttered in concern.
The bipedal, though, was reaching for the branch again, and the bull did not want to linger. He could get this thing off his horn later; he had gotten things stuck before, and a bipedal had been willing to help. If he could escape the flying birds, his bipedal would be able to help again, he knew.
Ükher adjusted himself, and took off as fast as his legs could take him; the thing caught on his horn swung, hitting him in the nose, the chest, the flank, but it did not come free. Behind the bipedal was screaming, though what had happened, the bull did not want to turn and see. “Mooo!” He called. A farewell, and over the hill he vanished, pointy air-birds singing behind him.
His great head lifted, large, long horns framing his pleasant face as he looked over the rolling hills of this strange place. He could hear something; fast-hooves. He knew the sound of their gait, the way they darted over the land as if they had wings like the feathered friends Ükher had back home.
He stopped chewing, forcing himself to swallow as he shifted his weight between his legs. It was coming over the hills; the pace was not a fast-hoof’s quickest step. Perhaps there was time to run the other way. Ükher could come back to graze later, when the fast-hoof was gone.
Yet, it was already too late. Up on the hill Ükher could see it now; the fast-hoof was brown, splotched in white a lot like himself, and how he remembered his Eejee Ükher being. Unlike them, though, this creature had no horns. The breeze blew its hair, and it snorted and made that familiar sound. Higher than the bull’s calls.
Upon his back was one of the bipedals.
Ükher stood completely still. Perhaps they would think him a tree if he did not move and he did not moo; his horns were like branches.
The bipedal did not have a kind face; it was pointy and slimy, and looked very much unlike even the ones called hunters back home. His bipedal, the one with long white hair and kind eyes, was far kinder in appearance than even the hunters he knew. This bipedal was frightening.
Ükher’s ears flicked nervously, and it ruined his disguise.
The bipedal dropped from his mount pulling from the back of the fast-hoof a curved branch and a handful of the pointy air-birds. The bipedal was speaking to him, maybe; or perhaps his fast-hoof. Ükher could not understand, nor could he hear, though his eyes went wide, and ringed in white.
He did not know what to do, save make the man stop. “Mooooo!” He bellowed, a warning, a plea. He did not want to take the long sleep; the bull had not found his bipedal yet.
Hopping, thunder trailing his hooves, Ükher kicked his hind legs from the ground, snorting. The fast-hoof sidestepped, moving away from the bipedal he had borne upon his back, a sound wickering from his throat.
“Good meat on you,” the bipedal croaked. Now the bull could hear him. Still his words were wrong, and he could not understand.
Ükher did not like the sound of the words, though. The bipedal seemed tired, his voice coarse and harried as if from overuse. It sounded mean, just like the bipedals that came on the fast-hooves sometimes back on the steppe.
He did not want to take the sleep, he did not want the pointy air-birds to bite. Ükher charged forward, bowing his head low.
Ükher felt the pointy air-bird fly, its song a whistle as it shot past his ear. He had felt the wind; so close to being bitten! So close to the long sleep! “Moooo!” He said, the sound like the rumble of the invisible herd. The fast-hoof moved, rearing up upon its back legs and thrusting them out and down. Ükher did not mind, he paid it no heed. He had to stop the branch from sending more birds; and his persistence made the fast-hoof run away further. “Moooo!” He exclaimed once more.
“Confounded beast!” The bipedal spat, though was not quite fast enough. Ükher dipped his head, and with a twist of his great horns, sent the bipedal flying. Something caught upon his horn, though, and as the bipedal screamed, the bull sought to shake it free.
“No—no, that’s mine, you overgrown—” The bipedal’s words seemed weak, and Ükher wondered if it were another language, for so many gusts of air were puncturing through the speech that it did not sound the same.
Something hit Ükher’s face; whatever was on his horn was swinging, moving slowly up his horn as he thrashed. “Mooo!” He uttered in concern.
The bipedal, though, was reaching for the branch again, and the bull did not want to linger. He could get this thing off his horn later; he had gotten things stuck before, and a bipedal had been willing to help. If he could escape the flying birds, his bipedal would be able to help again, he knew.
Ükher adjusted himself, and took off as fast as his legs could take him; the thing caught on his horn swung, hitting him in the nose, the chest, the flank, but it did not come free. Behind the bipedal was screaming, though what had happened, the bull did not want to turn and see. “Mooo!” He called. A farewell, and over the hill he vanished, pointy air-birds singing behind him.