Kyxal Thunaar

Kyxal Thunaar perches on dead stumps like he’s waiting for someone to call his name. Black feathers sit in tight, oily rows; his beady eyes track every bootstep, and his raven beak clicks through muffled rehearsal phrases before he speaks for real. Flightless and hunched, he stalks with clawed hands on a field-stripped shortbow. He marks targets with chalked footprints on rocks, then swaps the trail with stolen tracks from whoever tried to sell him out.