Running Eyeless

As his familiar perched on his pack, Eyeless reached to it and carefully removed the headdress of strings and beads that covered much of its delicate face. It yawned, a sudden chasm of pink and teeth in the dim firelight, and curled up, its legs stretching as it attempted to remove the sympathetic tension. Eyeless slowly removed his own headdress, a more complex affair, and, in the dark, set out some snares.

Come morning, there were two trapped birds. His familiar, already wise to his preferences, was slowly plucking the ground picker. Behind the sharp ears of the familiar, the sky taker pecked bitterly at the holes where the bread grass had been. Eyeless felt the heat on the cooking stone, and it was enough that the scraps his familiar had left would cook. He took the eyes of the smaller bird and put them in four small pouches of auroch leather, wound them into the strings and beads of two harnesses. After breakfasting, he slid the smaller over the sky taker’s cruel beak.

“Bird that is chosen, Son of Birds, I am Running Eyeless, Son of Foxes”.

You can find the complete version of Running Eyeless in issue 63 of TBD.

Andrew Robertson