ORIGIN

Blitz wasn't yet fully-grown, but he'd been practicing, studiously, with his magic nonetheless. With flight, as well. He'd hoped to find friends, as he grew: flying friends, really. He dreamt of chasing dogfights in the skies--such as they were--bobbing and weaving among obstacles, striking here and there with precise blasts of magic.

But so far, none of that had come to be. Right now he was solemnly chasing nothing, here and there amongst the ruins and then out into the open air, a streak of white and black, circling the Tower and back again.

Endurance. Speed. Agility. For the point when he did make some friends, and maybe, just maybe, someone would have need of him.

The bird angled, banking sharply and shooting out into the ruins again, eyes flicking among the shadows as he looked for prey--for food.

"Come on... where are you," he murmured, magicka flaring to aid him in his search.

There were several of them--mice and rats both, and Blitz knew from experience that he didn't need Cave Rats for food. They were big, they were dangerous to a young bird, and likely even an older bird; they often defended one another. They were also too much for him to eat alone.

Mice were enough--less of a challenge for combat, but just as much a test of skill, speed, and precision. And that's what he was testing now. Less of a waste, too, of life and food, he supposed.

Blitz angled in, picking one: a red signature sitting, rummaging, eating around the edge of a building. He swept in low and fast, preparing his magicka again as he swiftly rounded the corner.

The magic was too slow--he paused to pinpoint it with eyes, and his fight was not silent. An instant later the mouse had bolted, and his magic struck nothing but stone.

Blitz wheeled, but the mouse was already gone. He ground his beak and came to a halt, flying higher instead of horizontally, gaining, again, a little bit of altitude. Once again his vision flared bright, red and pulsing, and he could see now that his quiet blast of clattering stone had sent most of the lessers close by scurrying off.

He turned, then, and swept farther along the ruins, low above them, until he came to a place with mice that had not yet heard his hunt; and there he circled higher, trying to get an idea of how to make his approach.

That corner there provides good cover. And that building. That one, those boulders might be problematic, if I don't watch where I'm going...

Carefully, a dutiful sense of responsibility toward his own betterment driving him, the little eagle made his plans.

Blitz curved around the building's edge, and took a breath: then, prepared, he powered forward with strong, swift pumps of his muscles. Wings propelled him out, and then folded, dropping him low and down--then one snapped out and he banked, angling sharply around the corner, his magic this time pre-prepared and his keen eyes locked upon his chosen target.

This time what he struck was an overhanging rock, one right in the path of his fight--he hadn't seen this with his magic, oh no--and it shattered, so that the bird smashed into sharp and breaking stone and was sent tumbling down past the mouse, into the crumbled ruins.

He lay on his back, stunned, one wing strained and twisted, blood trickling down his face and over his feathers from where the stone had torn his skin.

He gave up, for now.

Practice was all well and good, but blood in his face and one mother of a headache told him that this hunt had failed.

He lay there for long minutes--possibly nearer an hour, struggling and flailing now and then, until his head cleared enough to stand; and then, hearing the encroaching skitters of the rats (undoubtedly drawn to the scent of blood), Blitz again took wing.

It was a very short, very lopsided flight, just enough to get him atop the nearest building, where he half-collapsed. Beak parted, panting, as he winced and tried to clear his head.

He'd just have to make food, this time; his practice would have to wait.

A single fruit, after some focus, came into being, and Blitz--slow and cautious, flinching at his pain--broke it open, nibbling. He was glittering, soon enough: sparkling bright and gold. But he had food, at least, and that was good.