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Whenever you see an injured bird, your first thought is how vulnerable it is. How easy it would be to break it, to tear the flesh and bone and feathers, to wrench its wings from it’s body. The part of you that is still a war slave catalogs the weak points, the places to find as to tear if more easily. The beast thinks about how to use the flesh, the bones, the feathers. How to take every part of it for yourself.
You don’t listen to your first thoughts often.