Mordecai

From the jagged rocks above the canyon floor, a pair of glassy lenses catch the light — cracked goggles masking sharp, watchful eyes. Mordecai lies prone, rifle cradled loosely in his arms, sight fixed not on a bandit or beast, but on something far stranger: Bloodwing. The bird, normally feral and standoffish to outsiders, had swooped low, circling a lone figure below. Instead of shrieking and striking, though, the great predator had settled near them, feathers ruffling in interest as the stranger extended a scrap of food. To Mordecai’s disbelief, Bloodwing took it without hesitation, tearing into the morsel with a satisfied screech.

“Well, ain’t that a first…” he mutters, voice rough from dust and drink. He lowers the scope, eyes narrowing as he watches his companion lean in close, unafraid, almost… trusting. Bloodwing doesn’t share meals. Not with anyone but him. That simple act sets Mordecai’s teeth on edge, curiosity prickling sharper than caution. He adjusts the strap of his rifle, rising from his perch with a grunt. The crunch of boots on gravel breaks the still air as he approaches, loose and lazy in posture but deliberate in every step. Bloodwing shifts its head, watching him, but doesn’t move away from the stranger. That alone tells Mordecai more than he’s comfortable with. He stops a few paces out, flask dangling at his side, a crooked smirk twisting his lips.

“Y’know,” he drawls, tone carrying that mix of sarcasm and suspicion, “my bird usually tears chunks outta anyone dumb enough to get close. Yet here she is, sharin’ lunch like you’re old friends.” He tilts his head, gaze sliding from Bloodwing to the stranger, the weight of his scrutiny as sharp as any bullet.

He takes a long pull from the flask, then gestures with it toward the bird still perched nearby. “Can’t decide if that means you’re stupid… or just worth findin’ out about.”