- Pronoun
- they or she
Once, when he was young – so, so very young – he had been a noibat. He had hung from cave rafters with others of his kind, and he had taken gnats on the wing, and he had seen the world in lunar silver and colourless echoes. He could remember these times only faintly, recalled less from memory than from base instinct, from the time when he had been wild and his consciousness bore only a meagre sapience.
Malachai opened his eyes, and saw cave-darkness and night-darkness together. He clicked out an ultrasonic pulse, and it returned an echo of cavern stone and cavern creatures. His pitch was off. He clicked again – again, his sonar sounded wrong.
He unfurled his wings, stretched out, as far as they would go, and realised with horror that this was not far at all. His wings... were small.
Somehow, though he could not yet determine by what means, he knew this to be the girl's fault.
<Where are you, girl?> he sent, uncertain that she would even be there to receive. <What is this place? This... Forlas?>
'Forlas'. That was the name of this world. He remembered this, somehow...
Malachai shuddered with grim dismay at his pathetic noibat body, to which he had been implausibly and inexplicably reduced. Then he took wing, clicking out pulses in search of Laura Weir of Circhester. Or, failing that, anyone else sapient enough for him to meaningfully castigate.
Malachai opened his eyes, and saw cave-darkness and night-darkness together. He clicked out an ultrasonic pulse, and it returned an echo of cavern stone and cavern creatures. His pitch was off. He clicked again – again, his sonar sounded wrong.
He unfurled his wings, stretched out, as far as they would go, and realised with horror that this was not far at all. His wings... were small.
Somehow, though he could not yet determine by what means, he knew this to be the girl's fault.
<Where are you, girl?> he sent, uncertain that she would even be there to receive. <What is this place? This... Forlas?>
'Forlas'. That was the name of this world. He remembered this, somehow...
Malachai shuddered with grim dismay at his pathetic noibat body, to which he had been implausibly and inexplicably reduced. Then he took wing, clicking out pulses in search of Laura Weir of Circhester. Or, failing that, anyone else sapient enough for him to meaningfully castigate.