he laid low the warriors of old; any

[Falk]

Mother lets him go once she has warned him to be careful.
She knows he is strong. And terribly courageous. She watches him stretch out his little wings and beat them hard against the wind, strong where it comes whooshing off the surface of the sea. She watches him go and he glances over his shoulder (at her and at the place where water washes over the rocks and onto the strange, still feet of that iron figure), ducking and diving a bit as he does. He welps and twists his wings to right himself. “Focus.”

Falk is his mother’s, through and through.

He’s never thought to ask about his dad – maybe one day. 
And maybe, unlike most, mother will speak amicably about him. About his big, curved back horns, the way he had moved on her, unlike any other and unseen until he was close – they had made something special, the two of them.
He only needs mum. She is big and tough; mother can make things whiz through the air and come to him when he wants them. It’s quite funny.

Maybe because of the way she dotes on him, Falk has become bold – spoiled, in some small measure, because of her indulgence and the quiet life he has stumbled through, thus far. 
(—he comes from something violent. A small eruption somewhere in the wilder places of Beqanna, where his mother met his father, an aroused, hot particle racing through space. Collision – and from that, him.)
He flies confidently and smoothly, if he focuses. Luckily, they can’t seem to get him when he is in the air (those devilish imps that set tripwires and snares for him, causing him to look ever so clumsy). Below, the spires of mountains and pines poke up at him and remembers what his mother told him. Just past those things there will be a clearing and it will feel kind. When he sees it, he will know, she said. And mother never lies.

He pushes back with his wings, stalling in the air for a second and then angling down. He descends in a small, controlled spiral. Soft grass sways closer and closer to his, long outstretching legs. He imagines it tickling his belly and he envisions a clean landing (though always vigilant, the colt squints around – they are sneaky).

But Falk is never so lucky.

He hits something much harder. A glancing blow that knocks his legs out from under and spills him unceremoniously onto the ground. He grunts and rolls, green and dust brown swirling around him in a blur, until he comes to a stop on his bottom. He blinks, his head tilting and dizzy. “I s-should have known!” he squeaks, scrambling to his legs and stumbling as few steps. 

“You... you fiends!” He shakes his pale mane and stops a small, cloven hoof.

FALK
Pollock x Syntyche