Fynlora Cryndel

Fynlora Cryndel perches backward on doorframes, talons hooked through warped grain, wings half-folded to show the pinprick speckle patterns like old burn-marks. Between breaths they hiss through split contact-lenses, then smears soot on their own beak to mark targets. When they rage, feathers bristle along their forearms and their greatclub drum-skips off ribs, never stopping until the whistle of its impact goes quiet.