Vultan had not only survived the killing field of the -- supply horn -- but he had done his ancestors proud, earning a blade for the risk he had taken. It wasn't as comfortable in his hand as his own claw would have been, but they had taken that from him, along with his mantle and crest, and he saw little other course.

And at least he could say he knew what the knife was. The rest.... He recognized that he was starting at a distinct disadvantage, but he was determined to even the playing field.

Stripping the constrictive clothing over his head, he lingered at the crumbling edges of the main floor, crouched in a shadow, eyes on the broken skylights. Watching, and waiting, one with the stone until the flutter of wings had him straightening.

Head lifting, he cooed. A soft bird call, his head cocking, gaze fixing on the pigeon that had landed above him.