Fourteen
“ Cloud! ”
The same wall of debris and wind that
tears Cloud from Soar ’ s arms pins him down so he can
do nothing more than watch as it takes her. By the time it releases him, his
lungs are empty and the entire roof rattles under golf-ball sized hail. As he
rolls into the doorway to avoid the shattering hail stones, the noise from the
tornado fades to be replaced by the music of running water.
“ Cloud, ” he gasps and as his hearing returns, the
splashing changes into the distinct sounds of shattering glass from Cooper ’ s building and those around it.
“ I will find you, Cloud, ” he swears. The hail yields to the dark of
night and falling rain. The storm knocked the power and out other than a frozen
ice-blue after-image from another burst of fork lightning there is nothing to
see. “ If I ever have you in my arms
again... just give me a chance to make it up to you. ”
Soar shifts his eyes to gryphon
sharpness, allowing him to use even the smallest amount of light. The cascade
of glass continues, broken only by a few cries for help but none from Cloud.
Most sensible Friday night drinkers should be holed up in Cooper ’ s or any of the other street level bars.
Once he drops from the edge, Soar stays
as far from the buildings as he can. The strong winds suck jagged chunks free
of the buildings and into his path. The chatter of tiny pieces of broken glass
on intact windows accentuates explosions of larger sheets as they land below.
As Soar gets his bearings, he figures his van may not have escaped the tornado.
Damn, she could be anywhere and he
circles one building after another, scanning every balcony and hole for her
until he reaches the Bow River where the devastation stops. He can only hope
the wind didn ’ t drop Cloud in the water.
Soar follows the tornado ’ s path back toward the downtown core and
there, six stories up amongst the fluttering of curtains freed from their
apartment windows, he spots movement inconsistent with the rest of the damage.
As he gets closer he sees long flight feathers protruding through the bars of a
balcony railing and a bare foot, no, a hand, as still as the windblown feathers
are disturbed.
“ Cloud, ” he calls. Magic hides his gryphon form
and disguises his voice as something humans will dismiss as uninteresting
background noise.
He alights on the patio ledge and grabs
hold of the rail. Cloud's naked form sprawls over flimsy furniture and
planters. As he tosses furniture aside, she moans and his heart leaps with hope
the tornado left her with enough life to save.
A human doctor might see her shaking and
drawn in limbs as a convulsion or evidence of head trauma but the seasoned
soldier in Soar identifies something very different - battle stress - and in a
gryphon her age it could very easily turn deadly.
Cloud ’ s flushed and swollen throat tries to
protect her body from the absolute terror of the storm. White circles surround
the dark centres of her eyes and she ’ s
scared almost to death. Unless he can settle her in the next few minutes there
will be nothing he can do but watch her slip away in the dim light of the
storm.
In the field, a group of fighting
gryphons will step in for another in this kind of shape using everything at
their disposal to bring the traumatized gryphon back to reality, calming their
body and mind to reverse the condition humans call shock.
Gryphons call it death because without
help, that ’ s where Cloud is headed.
“ Cloud,
little gryphon, ” Soar soothes as he gets a
large striped cushion off her. “ You ’ re
okay, Cloud. All over, eh? ”
As long as he doesn ’ t make a big deal out of it and remains
calm she has a chance but damn it, she ’ s
been carried three blocks by a tornado and thrown into a pile of planters. Soar
turns his head aside so she can ’ t see the moment where his confident mask
fails.
Her stubborn limbs don't make it easy to
untangle her from the other debris and other than an
“ Cloud! ”
The same wall of debris and wind that
tears Cloud from Soar ’ s arms pins him down so he can
do nothing more than watch as it takes her. By the time it releases him, his
lungs are empty and the entire roof rattles under golf-ball sized hail. As he
rolls into the doorway to avoid the shattering hail stones, the noise from the
tornado fades to be replaced by the music of running water.
“ Cloud, ” he gasps and as his hearing returns, the
splashing changes into the distinct sounds of shattering glass from Cooper ’ s building and those around it.
“ I will find you, Cloud, ” he swears. The hail yields to the dark of
night and falling rain. The storm knocked the power and out other than a frozen
ice-blue after-image from another burst of fork lightning there is nothing to
see. “ If I ever have you in my arms
again... just give me a chance to make it up to you. ”
Soar shifts his eyes to gryphon
sharpness, allowing him to use even the smallest amount of light. The cascade
of glass continues, broken only by a few cries for help but none from Cloud.
Most sensible Friday night drinkers should be holed up in Cooper ’ s or any of the other street level bars.
Once he drops from the edge, Soar stays
as far from the buildings as he can. The strong winds suck jagged chunks free
of the buildings and into his path. The chatter of tiny pieces of broken glass
on intact windows accentuates explosions of larger sheets as they land below.
As Soar gets his bearings, he figures his van may not have escaped the tornado.
Damn, she could be anywhere and he
circles one building after another, scanning every balcony and hole for her
until he reaches the Bow River where the devastation stops. He can only hope
the wind didn ’ t drop Cloud in the water.
Soar follows the tornado ’ s path back toward the downtown core and
there, six stories up amongst the fluttering of curtains freed from their
apartment windows, he spots movement inconsistent with the rest of the damage.
As he gets closer he sees long flight feathers protruding through the bars of a
balcony railing and a bare foot, no, a hand, as still as the windblown feathers
are disturbed.
“ Cloud, ” he calls. Magic hides his gryphon form
and disguises his voice as something humans will dismiss as uninteresting
background noise.
He alights on the patio ledge and grabs
hold of the rail. Cloud's naked form sprawls over flimsy furniture and
planters. As he tosses furniture aside, she moans and his heart leaps with hope
the tornado left her with enough life to save.
A human doctor might see her shaking and
drawn in limbs as a convulsion or evidence of head trauma but the seasoned
soldier in Soar identifies something very different - battle stress - and in a
gryphon her age it could very easily turn deadly.
Cloud ’ s flushed and swollen throat tries to
protect her body from the absolute terror of the storm. White circles surround
the dark centres of her eyes and she ’ s
scared almost to death. Unless he can settle her in the next few minutes there
will be nothing he can do but watch her slip away in the dim light of the
storm.
In the field, a group of fighting
gryphons will step in for another in this kind of shape using everything at
their disposal to bring the traumatized gryphon back to reality, calming their
body and mind to reverse the condition humans call shock.
Gryphons call it death because without
help, that ’ s where Cloud is headed.
“ Cloud,
little gryphon, ” Soar soothes as he gets a
large striped cushion off her. “ You ’ re
okay, Cloud. All over, eh? ”
As long as he doesn ’ t make a big deal out of it and remains
calm she has a chance but damn it, she ’ s
been carried three blocks by a tornado and thrown into a pile of planters. Soar
turns his head aside so she can ’ t see the moment where his confident mask
fails.
Her stubborn limbs don't make it easy to
untangle her from the other debris and other than an
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