It started on a miserable afternoon in the thick brush. Rain was coming down sideways, turning the earth into slick, heavy mud. Falcon was just trying to push through the undergrowth, brown coat soaked and speckled with dirt, when a sudden rustle under a bramble bush stopped them cold.
Inside the tangled vines sat a tiny, pale creature—scruffy white fur plastered to its sides, small winged back twitching nervously. It looked like a stray kitten that had sprouted bat wings by mistake. The little Moggie bared its teeth with a low, pathetic hiss, curling its curled tail tightly over its back.
The Kiamara didn’t move. They just sank down low onto all fours, letting their heavy tail rest in the mud to lower their silhouette.
"Hey there," Falcon grunted calmly, voice low and gravelly over the rain.
The tiny thing flinched, pink-tinted wings flaring just enough to show it meant business. Or tried to, anyway. Its ears flat against its head, those bright red eyes tracked every shift of the Kiamara's reddish mane.
Instead of reaching out, the patient Kiamara waited. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The rain didn't slow down, and neither did the standoff. Finally, the Kiamara reached into a pack, pulled out a small piece of dried meat, and tossed it into the mud halfway between them. Then took two big steps back.
The Moggie sniffed the air, its fluffy pinkish paws twitching. It shot a skeptical glare at the giant brown creature, crept out on trembling legs, grabbed the meat, and scrambled right back into the thorns.
Falcon chuckled, a rumble low in their chest. They didn't push it. They just sat back, letting the rain soak through their coat while the little creature ate.
By the third piece of meat, the Moggie didn't run back into the bush. It chewed slowly, watching the Kiamara with wide, curious eyes. When Falcon finally held out a open palm—muddy, scarred, and still—the little winged creature didn't hiss. It sniffed the damp fur, let out a tiny, high-pitched chirp, and rubbed the side of its face right against the Kiamara's paw.
From that rainy afternoon on, they were a package deal. Walking side by side, matching stride for stride, red eyes locked on whatever lay ahead.
Pengu
Kia Name: Falcon
It started on a miserable afternoon in the thick brush. Rain was coming down sideways, turning the earth into slick, heavy mud. Falcon was just trying to push through the undergrowth, brown coat soaked and speckled with dirt, when a sudden rustle under a bramble bush stopped them cold.
Inside the tangled vines sat a tiny, pale creature—scruffy white fur plastered to its sides, small winged back twitching nervously. It looked like a stray kitten that had sprouted bat wings by mistake. The little Moggie bared its teeth with a low, pathetic hiss, curling its curled tail tightly over its back.
The Kiamara didn’t move. They just sank down low onto all fours, letting their heavy tail rest in the mud to lower their silhouette.
"Hey there," Falcon grunted calmly, voice low and gravelly over the rain.
The tiny thing flinched, pink-tinted wings flaring just enough to show it meant business. Or tried to, anyway. Its ears flat against its head, those bright red eyes tracked every shift of the Kiamara's reddish mane.
Instead of reaching out, the patient Kiamara waited. Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. The rain didn't slow down, and neither did the standoff. Finally, the Kiamara reached into a pack, pulled out a small piece of dried meat, and tossed it into the mud halfway between them. Then took two big steps back.
The Moggie sniffed the air, its fluffy pinkish paws twitching. It shot a skeptical glare at the giant brown creature, crept out on trembling legs, grabbed the meat, and scrambled right back into the thorns.
Falcon chuckled, a rumble low in their chest. They didn't push it. They just sat back, letting the rain soak through their coat while the little creature ate.
By the third piece of meat, the Moggie didn't run back into the bush. It chewed slowly, watching the Kiamara with wide, curious eyes. When Falcon finally held out a open palm—muddy, scarred, and still—the little winged creature didn't hiss. It sniffed the damp fur, let out a tiny, high-pitched chirp, and rubbed the side of its face right against the Kiamara's paw.
From that rainy afternoon on, they were a package deal. Walking side by side, matching stride for stride, red eyes locked on whatever lay ahead.
2026-09-07 17:16:40
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