#phantomwing

so, I’ve actually got two questions: My initial question, which I’m pretty sure I know the answer to, and then a followup.

initial question: At the end of Pedals to the Metal, the Red Robe shows up, says some vaguely foreboding stuff about fear, some stuff about the Hunger that doesn’t really mesh with later revelations, and tries to poison them. When you find out that he was Barry and on their side, this doesn’t make much sense in retrospect, so what the heck? I figure the actual answer is ‘Griffin was still changing his mind about the overarching plot but you can’t really retcon stuff in a podcast,’ but y’know.

“Mal! Uncle Mal, look at meeeee!”

The scraping of claws on wood brought his gaze up to the series of shelves to his left. Plaques and mounted medals and trinkets from all over decorated them and, in the center of one shelf, perched between an ornate trophy of crystal and a sculpture welded together from the scrapped metal of a hunting rifle, perched his niece, oversized wings and gangly limbs poised for flight.

“Don’t do it,” he warned, feathers flaring. Torvi grinned.

“Dad said I gotta practice!” He flinched as she snapped open her wings, nearly knocking over everything on the shelf with her. “Watch me! I’m gettin’ pretty good, I think!”

“No, don’t-”

“HERE I GO!”

“NO!”

She launched herself up, wings driving down into the shelf.

The force of her take-off ripped the shelf from the wall.

Objects fell.

Torvi’s upstroke crashed into another shelf, sending everything on them flying as well.

A cacophony of noise followed - screeching, shattering, clattering.

Malaanskar jumped from his perch, hissing.

As the proverbial dust cleared, he saw Torvi sprawled half on her back, legs and tail propped up on the wall, the remains of his work spoils scattered around her.

“Oops,” she said, rolling over and hopping to her feet. “Welp, gotta try again!”

She shook bits of crystal from her feathers before flapping over to the file cabinet and starting to climb up.

Malaanskar lung-snarled, the sound shaking the windows and sending Torvi back to the floor, hands over her ears.

“TORVIHARI!” he roared, slamming a hand on his desk hard enough to rattle his bones. “ENOUGH!”

She cowered, hissing back up at him.

“Shutupshutup! Too loud!”

He regarded her for a moment, quieting as he saw several scrapes and cuts on her arms and wing-shoulders.

Cleaning the floor and gluing his trophies back together would have to wait.

Nudging his head toward the perch in the far corner, he sighed.

“Wait over there. I’ll get the first aid kit.”

Nodding, she scuttled over to the perch, climbing up and curling her wings and tail around herself. Satisfied, Malaanskar made for the exit, looking back at her before letting the curtain fall behind him.

“No more flying indoors, alright? Once I get you patched up, we’ll go out onto the runway and you can flail around out there.”

She nodded again, ears perking back up slightly.

“Right. I’ll be back.”

And then he was airborne, making a beeline for the infirmary, head throbbing.

How Jokan even survived raising that bundle of chaos was far, far beyond him.

***

Torvi picked idly at her scrapes, starting to feel the sting of them. Looking at her handiwork on the opposite wall of the office, she stuck out her tongue and laughed.

It looked better that way, she thought. More natural, less…stuffy.

Yes, it had earned her an ear-stinging roar from Uncle Mal, but the promise of a more open place to practice flying made things better.

Maybe she’d actually get more than three feet off the ground this time.

Hearing claws impact the stoop outside, she perked up, hopping in place on her perch. Uncle Mal was back, no doubt.

However, the Tyrkovan that pushed past the curtain was not Uncle Mal.

He looked a bit like him, though.

Same markings, similar build.

His eyes, though, made her shiver, made her want to hide.

Uncle Mal had bright yellow eyes, like Dad. This guy had...gross grayish eyes. Like herself. And they weren’t stern and stony like Uncle Mal’s or smart like Dad’s.

They were slimy. Cold. Unnerving as they scanned the overturned office.

“Hmm,” the new guy hummed, nearly gliding over to the mess and kicking some of it with his feet. Torvi didn’t like his voice, either. It was just as slimy as his eyes were. “Maybe this’ll knock ‘ol’ Lightkin’s’ ego down a few notches. All his pretty little things, scattered, broken...it’s beautiful.”

Then, he turned around, and Torvi hissed, wrapping herself in her wings. He was looking right at her, face blank like...like...like one of those painted Human masks.

Blank, dead-looking masks attached to wigs of stringy stuff that didn’t move like feathers did, worn by reenactors at the history festivals Jokan had taken her to. She’d cried when she’d first saw them, to her embarrassment, and Jokan had held her and assured her that they were fake.

‘Resin and faux hair, Torvi. A dead facsimile - nothing to be scared of. Nothing like the real thing.’

This slimy Tyrkovan’s face was like those masks, though it was real. Alive.

And Jokan wasn’t here.

“Well, well. What do we have here?” He approached, staring down at her, and she bared her teeth. “Are you the troublemaker that caused all this commotion and destruction?” He smiled, and it barely even started to reach his eyes. “Well done. Wish I could’ve seen it.”

She said nothing, still baring her teeth.

“I have no manners,” the new guy chuckled, wings outstretched slightly, boxing her in. “My name is Valto. That’s Ariitaalos Valto.”

Ariitaalos - that was Uncle Mal’s flight-name.

“Seems my dear brother caught himself a fledgeling for a few hours-ah, wait. You’re Jokan’s little tail-dragger, aren’t you?”

A hand shot out, snatching her from her perch and hoisting her upright by her scraped wing-shoulder. Valto stood her in front of him, his eyes seeming to drill into her as she struggled out of his grip, hissing in pain.

“Let’s see. Strong shoulders, deep chest, sharp reflexes - yes, you’d make a passable Verkorant for sure, should that stunted, pontificating, past-worshipper realize that he has no rights to raise you-GAH!”

Valto hopped back, a scrape on his shin leaking blood.

“YOU SHUT UP ABOUT MY DAD!” Torvi screeched, scrambling back onto her perch, foot talons stinging from the kick. Using the perch for some extra height, she flared every last feather on her person and snapped her wings out to their full span. “YOU...YOU SHUT UP AND EAT DIRT YOU GROSS-EYED FREAK-!!!”

The next thing she knew, she was batted sidelong into the wall by a massive wing, talons pinning her to the floor.

Valto leaned over her, face still horribly blank.

“I didn’t say anything about your father, Torvi. Nothing but his name.”

Torvi scratched at his ankle, hissing and spitting.

“Yeah you did! You called him a stunted, pontiff...pontificat...WHATEVER! GET OFF OF ME!!!!”

Some kind of sour look crossed Valto’s face, his pupils pinning a moment before it all ironed out again into that expressionless mask.

“Figures you’d be as myopic as that superstitious short-wing. Ignorance like that is infectious.”

Whatever he was about to say next, however, was interrupted by more claws on the stoop and the rustle of the curtain.

“Torvi, I hope you haven’t knocked anything else over- YOU.”

Valto cast a glance over his shoulder, removing his foot from Torvi’s chest and taking a step back.

“Ah! Brother. So good to see you aga-”

“Get out.”

Uncle Mal’s voice was steelier than usual, cold and hard and sharp. Torvi could practically taste the raw dislike laced in it.

“But I was just having a pleasant conversation with my-”

“GET OUT.”

A hand seized Valto’s feather crest, and he was pulled back with a loud squawk. Torvi rolled over and sat up quickly enough to see Uncle Mal practically tossing Valto out the exit, wiping his hands on his uniform after doing so.

That done, he pulled down the metal curtain, locking it at the bottom and snarling through the message hole for good measure.

“Did he hurt you?” he asked, voice now urgent. When Torvi didn’t answer immediately, he hustled over to her and easily lifted her back onto her perch, face even with hers. “Tell me. What did he do? What did he say?”

“He just said some mean things about Dad, that’s all,” Torvi finally mumbled, shrugging. “I don’t like him.”

“Good,” Uncle Mal sighed, ruffled feathers smoothing out slightly. He took a moment to retrieve the first aid kit and began to clean Torvi’s scrapes and cuts. “Listen to me, Torvi. If Valto comes near you again, don’t be afraid to fight him off. Don’t be afraid to fly away. And for Avar’s sake, don’t listen to anything he spews from his maw, do you understand?”

Torvi nodded, puffing her chest out.

“Got it. Hey, I kicked ‘im in the shin!” She chirped proudly. “See?” Grinning, she held up her foot, claws still flecked with a bit of blood.

She’d never seen Uncle Mal smile before. And, as slight as it was, his eyes crinkled at the edges.

“That’s the spirit.”

He continued to clean her wounds, having to bandage a decently deep one on her shoulder. As he reorganized the first aid kit, she hopped down from the perch and flapped her wings expectantly. “Are we going to the runway now? Can I practice flying?!?”

Uncle Mal clicked his teeth together as he shut the kit.

“Hmm...no.” He held up a hand to stop the whine that almost made it out of her throat. “We’re going to the gym, and I’m going to teach you a bit about self-defense.”

Torvi’s jaw dropped.

“Wait, does that mean I get to kick and punch things?!?”

“In a sense...it’s more about not getting punched and kicked yourself, but in a sense…”

“YES!”