Quick and Dirty

Nothing more need be said. The foolish owl, blinded by his unending loyalty to a cause you’d never heard of, had made the decision for you. There he stood, firm and unflinching in spite of everything that had transpired that night. Your attempts at negotiation dismissed, your offers of apologetic kindness spurned, all left in the dirt in favor of his ridiculous duty. Matching his determined glare, you slowly tense your muscles for what’s to come, any hopes of finding common ground with the Ranger long since passed.

Your continuing refusal to answer his pointed question coupled with the aggressive posture tipped off the featherbrain to the imminent conflict, his eyes narrowing dangerously. The seconds began to slip by with the two of you frozen in time. The air felt thick, the wind all but silent as if in deference to the storm that would follow. Now, in this deafening quiet, you see the irony of Rowan. For in this moment, a breath from battle do you find understanding with the man. The two of you could never cooperate, could never aid in each other's struggles. World’s apart and ideologies forever misaligned, all you could do…

..Was strike first!

With seasoned grace, your head drops low to bring it in line with the midsection of your wannabe warden before a powerful snap of the leg sends you rocketing toward the man. With barely 10 feet between you, it is your hope that the Ranger wouldn’t have time to level a shot. No such luck, you find as the man, inexperienced in diplomacy, has more than made up for it in martial prowess. Before you’re even halfway to your target, Rowan has an arrow grasped, aimed and speeding toward your grimacing face. Not the best turn of events, though not an unexpected one as you’d seen first hand what that bow was capable of. With the easy option dashed, your next quickstep allows for an altered trajectory. While **** to sacrifice some of your momentum, the split second decision allows you to pitch forward bringing you just low enough to duck the quill, sending it streaking harmlessly overhead. With one strong shove from your hands, you shed the prone position and continue right on toward your thickheaded adversary.

Rowan was fast with that first shot, but he would never have time to send another, leaving him fully exposed. One final pump of your legs sends you hurtling toward the owl, right fist balled and looking for a quick knockout. The Scout is ready for the frontal ****, though, his own hand abandoning his quiver to put a fluffy forearm between the punch and his mug. The blow, whilst cushioned somewhat by the feathery limb, does seem to rattle the man, forcing the archer to plant a talon behind him. With his balance upset and most of his weight on that bruised right leg, you dare to spin in place to launch a vicious kick from the left.

Confident that the man's awkward stance would keep him in place, you think nothing of the split second loss of visual as you whirl around, heel tearing toward his face. Whilst hoping the kick would connect leading to an easy knock out, you expected to feel another plumage buffered block from your opponent. Even a skilled parry, stalling your offensive was not impossible from what you'd seen from the Ranger. What you did not expect, however, was nothing.

The satisfying jolt of an attack successfully finding its mark is bafflingly absent as your leg whizzes through what was once a foul tempered owl just a moment before. You have little time to stew in your confusion as the considerable momentum behind the sweep kick causes you to overbalance, nearly sending you from the tree limb all together. Instinctively dropping to a knee to slow the spin, your darting eyes fail to confirm your feathered adversary’s location, instead only catching a fleeting glimpse of an odd, purple fog. The mist, occupying the space where Rowan once stood, quickly evaporates, your furious roundhouse likely hastening its departure. As the slight dizziness from your ineffective twirl begins to assail your brain, you begin to rise from your exposed position. Nearly returned to your proper standing height, your progress is interrupted as the question of your ‘friend’s’ sudden disappearance is answered with a terrible blow to your unprotected back. The **** drives the air from your crushed lungs and drives you face first into the bough beneath you. Muzzle bouncing as you skid along the bark, you come to a stop barely a foot from the trunk. The need for air supersedes the impulse to groan in pain causing the resulting gasps to come hard and ragged. In the back of your mind you know the sneaky owl wouldn’t waste the advantage your mistake had lent him but the stars darting about your blurred vision make it difficult to do anything other than prop yourself up on two shaky elbows.

That minor victory is stolen from you as a merciless strike crashes against the same spot, collapsing your attempted rise and smashing your front against the wood. The pain doesn’t leave this time, though, rather an exquisite pressure settles in as the weight of that damned bird pins your torso tightly with what your hazy mind assumes to be the talon he’d kicked you with. Teeth gritted against the fresh aches along your spine, you struggle all the same to turn your head, finally bringing the ranger within your gaze.

The expected smug expression isn’t present on the man's face, rather you're met with a Decidueye that looks nearly as worn out as you feel. His shoulders sag, arms dangling weakly instead of forming that insidious bow, and his chest heaves with obvious difficulty. This insight might have spurred you to action if not for the considerable weight grinding against your hide. When the owl manages to collect himself enough to shake whatever weariness he was fighting, your curious stare is apparently not appreciated. Words form in your raspy throat though they are stolen as a second hind claw slams into the side of your face.

“.. N- not so confident now, C-cat..”, Rowan's tone, whilst still teeming with newly stoke ire for you and all your kin, relays just how much energy his mysterious attack drew from him. This tidbit is wholly unhelpful in your current state, of course, the crushing **** nearly doubling as the avian’s full bulk was now brought to bear. Groans are all you can **** through your lips, so tightly clamped in the talon of the furious man. Without thinking, you bring one shaky hand up in the hope to shift the hind to try and relive some of the pain in your skull. The backlash is immediate and without a shred of remorse.

“I think not, filth!”, Rowan cries as he raises his forward leg, your head still held in his talons grasp being **** along for the ride. Any thoughts of reasoning with or somehow escaping the man are dashed as completely as your face when that same hind claw drives your forehead back into the unforgiving wood. The hit sends stars through what’s left of your fading vision, and the distant sensation of that warm sole rubbing against your cheek has your fleeting cognition imagining a supremely satisfied smirk spreading across the owl's beak as your fight comes to a close. Strength leaves your limbs to hang over the sides of the branch and darkness takes you.

“... Finally…”

The Decidueye crumples to one knee atop his **** quarry. Though he’d hidden a great deal of the strain that particular technique had put him through, the dizziness crashed over him all the same. With no more need for the admittedly overly dramatic attitude he’d taken with the lone Sneasel, he slumped upon the dozing feline in a somewhat undignified pose, with his rump planted comfortably in the small of the cat's back. The notion to simply lay atop this ‘Kale’ for the time being flitted about his woozy brain as the troublemaker’s soft fur (which smelled slightly of peaches, oddly enough) made for good makeshift bedding.

The silly idea was naturally dismissed outright and the exhausted man simply sat there for a moment, collecting his faculties as he assessed the events of the evening. This one had spoken openly about a possible shift of power in the most hated Huntsman’s Claw and likely knew even more than he’d shared. Such information would prove quite useful to the bright minds back at the Nest and the foolish cat had given the Ranger all the justification he needed to properly apprehend him. When, at last, the splotches in his vision had cleared up, Rowan would go about re-binding the Sneasel, silently chastising himself for ever being stupid enough to free him in the first place. When both the cat's ankles and wrists were secured once more, Rowan added an extra measure, fitting his catch with a vine gag.

“More than enough lies have been spoken this night.”

The minutes ticked by and the archer made his final preparations for the long flight back home. Even on his best days flying with a ‘passenger’ would strain his winged arms before long. Never had his mission been so vital, though, and the young scout resolved then and there that he would ferry this miscreant into the waiting arms of those that could make use of his knowledge. With hind claws gripping tightly under and around the Sneasels shoulders, Rowan took one last steadying lungful and launched himself into the night sky. The added weight came into play immediately, staggering his first few wing pumps. In the end, his will would prove the stronger and off he flapped into the calm breeze, his prey in tow as the first hints of orange crested the horizon.