The bar is dingy, bathed in warm light, glasses clink, heathens’ chatter low and smooth, when he walks in. He spots the hunter he is looking for in a far booth, sipping a whiskey. Her obsidian black hair falls on her shoulders, a white tank top layered over a black bodysuit, black cargo pants on her strong legs, and black sturdy boots upon her feet. 

Sliding into her booth, she finally looks up at him. She doesn’t seem too happy with being disturbed. Her sapphire blue eyes stare at him with an intensity he was not prepared for, despite knowing her reputation. She is a fellow hunter of the feathered people, known for her assessing gaze, brutal kills, and a tendency to go for the harder kills.

Her voice is rough, “What do you want?” He begins to introduce himself, but she doesn’t let him finish, “I don’t care who you are. I asked what you want.”

“Sorry–” the man starts to apologise, but is quickly cut off.

“Don’t apologise. Makes you seem weak.”

“Right–” he is cut off again and frowns in frustration.

“Five words or less,” she commands, wanting a brief interaction. He is starting to get frustrated now. Interruptions are one of his pet peeves.

“Feather–” he clenches his jaw at another interruption 

“Another wannabe hunter, I presume?” she lets out a huff of annoyance. “Get lost, kid.”

“Don’t call me that,” she lets out another huff as he rebuts.

“Listen here, kid, hunting isn’t easy. The most you could do is get yourself killed. Now run along to your mother.”

“Shut up!” eyes snap up towards them as his voice rises above the others, “I am not a kid! I am twenty-five and deserve to be treated as such.” She quirks her brow, and he loses all confidence. Chuckles are heard throughout the room, before the patrons return to their own business.

“Quiet down,” she lets out a reluctant sigh, taking pity on him and finally giving in to what he wants. “Centuries ago, there was a war. The Feather-People of the sky fought over peace, eventually ripping a tear into their ground– our sky,” her eyes flashed with memories. Thuds of the Feather-People slamming into the ground, feathers and blood mingled under their corpses.”

“I already know the story,” His mother would tell it to him every night, trying to soothe him after he witnessed his town hunt the local Flock. He still remembers the blood of the golden angel, their scream as their wings were ripped from their body, feathers and blood mixing on the pavement before they were burned.

“You want my help, you get the story. Now quiet,” she shifts slightly in her chair, taking a drink of her whiskey to dull the pain in her scarred shoulder blades. “The land people hunted the remaining ones, tearing out their wings for prize money. Some families kept their individual feathers as protection.”

“How do we find them?” his head turns briefly to watch another hunter trade in bloody wings to the bartender for a few gold shillings.

“Catch them by surprise,” she leans her back against the booth, the action regaining his attention. “They may be able to cut off their wings to hide, but they can’t keep their eyes hidden forever. Strong emotions cause their eyes to glimmer in their natural form.” The hunter by the bartender also trades in jewel-like eyes for double gold shillings.

“Some say their souls are strapped in their eyes, even past death. Is it true?” he watches her gather her jacket, gathering his own in turn.

“You’re about to find out.” She claps him on the shoulder as they walk out. “Let’s get your first kill, kid.”