#bloomburrow

“It’s Maha! Everyone find cover!”

A dark shadow swept over the camp, sending everyone scrambling. The rabbitfolk soldiers were all able to find shelter, with the exception of one, who stood brazenly out in the open.

“Kelsey, get in here!” huffed a soldier cowering nearby behind a tent flap.

“No,” came the beleaguered reply from the exposed rabbit.

“What? Why!”

“Because…it’s not Maha.” Kelsey pointed skyward. Again the shadow passed over the camp. And again Kelsey remained unharmed. “See? I would’ve been eaten twice over, now.”

“A lucky break for sure. Now get under cover! It’s Maha, I’m sure of it!”

“No, it’s not,” Kelsey snickered. “And I’m sure of that. Here - again, a third time.”

Finally, the supposed calamity beast landed amid the tents, with a flurry of furious wingbeats. Kelsey alone stood her ground, while even the rabbit who had been conversing with her retreated.

“…Tacitus?” the brave soldier asked incredulously.

“Ah, n-no, of course not!” stammered a mockingbird, clad in an oversized coat of dyed black down. “W-Who is this ‘Tacitus’ you speak of? It is I, MAHA, ITS FEATHERS NIGHT!”

Kelsey laughed once more. “How’d you do that with your voice? One heck of a spell, is my guess.”

“SUCH DISRESPECT, FROM A MERE-”

“All right, I’m over it. Cut it out. Now.”

Tacitus seemed to shrink. “Y-Yes, ma’am,” he muttered, in his normal voice.

“See, everyone?” Kelsey called to the rest of the camp. “False alarm! Just a…performer. One in pretty poor taste, might I add!”

“…We just wanted to give credit to Tacitus’s impersonation,” said the voice from the tent.

“Wh- Hey!” grumbled the bird in question. “It wasn’t that bad a likeness…was it?”

“No, they’re just lying…” Kelsey turned to stare at the tents. “I think.”

“…Oh, Elwood is doing just fine. Thanks for asking! How’s Henia, by the way?”

The elder batfolk grimaced at the mention of his granddaughter. “Oh, don’t worry about her, Bronze. She’s-” He winced, clutching at his side and earning a concerned look from the mousefolk on the ground below him.

“Are you all right up there, Thorne? I have a healing salve if you’d like? It certainly helps take the edge off soreness after our training.”

“I don’t need any help!” spat the ornery bat. “This is merely the toll my divination magic takes. Insight requires suffering.”

Bronze turned up his nose at the notion. “Well, I think it requires a good meal, some bedrest, and maybe a little healing salve…Oh! Speaking of which-”

“No.”

“Oh, come on! Henia would want you to take it!”

“Henia…” Thorne began, his tone growing angry, “is a slouch when it comes to her studies.”

Bronze’s son sidled up to his side. “What’s a slouch, dad?”

“It means we shouldn’t call people names, son…And their grandfathers especially shouldn’t do it to their own granddaughters! Thorne!”

“It’s true, though. She abandoned our training mid-session. She is clearly too irresponsible to handle such power.”

“Glad we’re sure about that,” Bronze grumbled under his breath. “Couldn’t possibly be anything you did.”

Thorne’s long ears perked up, easily detecting the sly comment. “Excuse me!”

“I said, just give her a few days to cool off, then resume the training - slowly. Slow and steady wins the race. At least, that’s what Archelos always says. And it always works with my little champion here, anyway!”

Bronze ruffled Elwood’s hair for emphasis, earning an annoyed cry from the younger mouse.

“Aw, dad!”

“Ridiculous!” Thorne snapped, furious at the suggestion. “Again, it is not a gentle, coddling hand that imparts this knowledge. It is training! Rigorous, painful training.”

“…That sounds awful,” Elwood chimed in.

“Oh, what do you know!”

“Did you know, Helga, that I was once a mere fortune teller?”

The young frogfolk sitting at the foot of Glarb’s throne made a quiet, anxious croak of acknowledgement, several seconds before actually voicing a proper response. “No, milord. I did not.”

Glarb gave a big belly laugh. “Oh, it’s not something I make the habit of spreading around. These things can quickly turn to rather nasty rumors, you know! But ah, yes, I remember it like it was yesterday…”

—

“…Y-You really mean it? A bountiful harvest season, at last?”

The young Glarb tapped a webbed finger to his nose. “Well, nothing’s for certain. But in addition to this prediction, I plan to lend my aid to the weather mages this year. So yes, I predict a fine future for you farmers, indeed!”

The crowd of peasants gathered around the fortune teller broke into raucous applause. The rabbitfolk who had asked the question scooped up Glarb in a crushing embrace and kissed him.

“Oh, thank you! Our village is saved!”

“It is if I have something to say about it!” Glarb chimed, elated by the response.

—

“…So, what happened?”

“Whatever do you mean, my dear?” Glarb lounged lazily atop his throne, seemingly oblivious to the true nature of Helga’s blunt question. “I became king on the backs of those fulfilled promises! And now I foresee all of Valley’s future, as well as train young aspirants such as yourself!”

“Yes, milord, but-”

“Ahhh, but enough reminiscing! I think that’s enough training for today. Don’t you?”

“Ah. Er. Yes. Yes, milord.” Helga bowed while backpedaling toward the throne room doors, nearly tripping over her own feet in the process.

“On your way out, please send up Cruelclaw. He should be under watch somewhere.”

Helga swallowed nervously. “T-The infamous thief?”

“Yes. He and I have some…” Glarb paused. “It’s about time he faced proper punishment for his crimes. Thank you, Helga.”

Helga took one last look around the vast, ostentatious throne room and its sole occupant.

“Y-Yes, Milord.”

“We meant a metaphorical storm, Perrin! Not literal!”

Flying amid battering winds and bolts of lightning, the crow looked at his fellows down below. Every other bird present was grounded and gesturing wildly for him to land. The motion, however, only served to confuse him, as he could not hear their pleas over the sound of the storm.

“What!” Perrin bellowed, fighting to both hear and be heard. “I can’t hear you!”

“Perrin! Get out of the-”

A bolt of lightning turned the night to day, striking Perrin in the wing. The lone airborne crow spasmed, smoldered, then began to fall.

“-sky…You two! Catch him!”

Two other crows nodded and took flight, darting toward the falling fowl. They caught Perrin just in time, before he disappeared amid the treetops. As they carried him back to ground, he finally came to, theatrically sniffing the air.

“Is…is something cooking?”

“You are, stupid,” growled one of his rescuers, as they landed.

“PERRIN!” A wizened old crow hopped toward Perrin’s prone body, and gave him a chiding peck to an unscathed part of his body.

“Ow!” Yelped the twice-wounded bird. “What was that for!”

“We are a ‘storm’ of crows! We do not fly during an actual storm!”

“Oh…” Perrin removed his goggles and blinked slowly. “So that’s what you all were yelling about- Ow!”

The old crow pulled back from another peck. “I never should have let you pull these pranks in the first place. Interfering with divinations is bad enough. But this? No. Too far. You’re grounded!”

“Already am, literally and figuratively…” A pause. “Mom…”

Despite Perrin trying to groan this last word quietly, the other crows’ keen hearing still picked it up. The murder laughed amongst themselves, while Perrin’s mother breathed a tired sigh.

“Flying in a storm. Who would be so stupid…?”