The Princess's Feathers

Instincts scream to make myself as small and compact as possible. I crouch until my chest feathers are grazing the tips of grass, angling my neck perpendicular to the ground. Something is telling my brain that the feeling I’m alone, that comforting certainty I’ve felt since I was back in the hollow, is no longer true. Someone, or something, has joined me on the prairie.

I scan the field to try and identify what’s causing my instincts to flare. But there’s nothing out of the ordinary I can spot, just the endless wafting of tallgrass that I’ve become accustomed to this afternoon. I perk my ears around but hear nothing.

This is what I expected, though. While my vision has improved somewhat as Lithan, it’s my nose that’s gotten the biggest upgrade.

I sniff the air, taking in the scents around me; like a light bulb illuminating a darkened room, the breadth of the prairie is revealed to me. My brain processes it all, effortlessly able to categorize and pinpoint the smells as my olfactory senses process them. In the corner of the field is an orchid patch, smelling lovely as usual. Wafting through the trees I damaged earlier is the scent of the pond, blending with the smells of withered leaves and shattered bark.

Bisecting the field, the stale scents of animals who’ve recently traversed it. A Ringtail and a Marten. A man who covered himself in cologne this morning to delight his partner. A woman who kept a daisy pinned to the hat her mother gave her as a birthday present.

…

There! Among the rhubarb and logweed, it's the scent of another feral! Though I’m uncertain which feral it belongs to, or why I associate this smell with a feral in the first place. It smells aromatic and sweet, not like any ferals I can recall. If I had to come up with a comparison based on things I smelled as a Lemur, I’d say it’s a cross between a birthday cake and the lavender that grows in the royal garden.

Paradoxically, it also smells unique, like neither of those things at all. It’s quite vexing.

It really is astonishing how hyper-sensitive my nose has become. As a Lemur, my sense of smell was about as sharp as a hen’s egg. If I wanted to smell the gardenia in the palace, I had to stick them so close to my nose you’d be forgiven for thinking I was about to gulp one down as a snack.

I think a proper investigation is in order! If I’m going to be spending some time in this form, then it’s going to be worth it to familiarize myself with its capabilities. Tracking down an unknown feral across the prairie should be a good test of that. Despite my earlier apprehension, I can tell whatever’s out there isn’t a threat to me, so it should be safe to go looking for it.

Is what I’m feeling really apprehension? Maybe it’s… excitement.

The longer I sit here though, the fainter the scent gets. Does that mean the feral is moving away from me? Hey, don’t leave so soon! I need to come find you!

I stand up and trundle across the field in the direction the scent is coming from, taking in whiffs of air every so often to stay on course. Soon I reach a pin oak out in the middle of nowhere and the profile of the scent changes. It smells… fresher, now. The feral has been in this spot recently. I push on, this time able to track its scent so acutely it seems I’m following an invisible line in the grass, drawn by the scent the feral left in its passing.

You know, the thought of what I’m doing right now is hilarious to consider given how important a person I am. I can just imagine what the nobles in the palace would be saying if they could see me right now.

Her Majesty’s heir to the throne, Princess Asha Eloise Lordanou, is faffing about a field like one of her father’s mangy hunting dogs. Truly a lamentable waste of her talents, she would surely do herself better to track down an assortment of maths textbooks to study and arrange dinner with one of my fine male consorts!

I wonder if I can convince mom to let me bite their heads off.

The scent leads me across the field and down a small dip in the landscape where a stream runs. I reach a bend in the stream and the small head of a doe shoots up through the grass some distance ahead of me, the whites of its eyes clearly visible. I freeze in place, and my muscles tense up in excitement.

So that’s what I was tracking! It’s hard to be certain because of how far away and small it is, but it appears to be a red-tailed deer. I’ve seen these in person at the Varecia Zoo before, but never out in the wild like this.

A breeze blows through us, bringing another whiff of its pleasant scent. We stare at each other for a few moments, neither of us daring to make a move. It must be terrified of me, right?

I want to get closer to it.

What if… I moved very slowly. Could I approach it without spooking it?

With a feather touch, I move a front leg forward in the direction of the deer. But before it can touch the ground again, the doe takes off running!

I give chase as it darts down the stream bed. It’s small, easily able to leap and bound over any of the smaller briars in its path. But I have the size advantage. My legs are so long, so easily able to cover the ground with each stride, that I can handily make up the distance between us.

That is unless the deer decides to escape into a grove at the edge of the field... which it does. All I can do is watch helplessly as it leaps and disappears through a thicket, forcing me to use my wings to come to an abrupt halt.

Darn it! Just as I was catching up to it, too! My stomach growls in protest.

…Oh! So that’s why I’ve been so invested in trying to track down this doe!

I told myself that I wanted to find it so I could become more familiar with the capabilities of my new body. But my eagerness to get close to it, and my disappointment when it escaped me, that wasn’t just my curiosity, was it? Oh, no.

I wanted to eat the doe.

I saw it as prey.

I recoil a little as the weight of this realization washes over me. That poor, defenseless creature!! I wanted to rip it to pieces!! What is wrong with me?!

...There’s nothing at all wrong with me, is there?

I’ve turned into a predator species, the largest on the entire moon. It’s completely natural for me to track down and kill other ferals. In fact, it’s essential to my survival as a Lithan; If I can’t hunt down ferals like that doe and eat them, I’ll starve to death.

Sorry, Asha! But there’s no palace staff to cook and serve you dinner out here! If I want to eat something, I must go and catch it myself. When I smelled the scent of the doe and wanted to investigate, that was just my instincts kicking in and guiding me in the right direction so I could survive.

The instinct to survive, huh? Is that what happened during the fight with Starla and the others? Was it my instincts as a Lithan that guided me to… do what I did to them?

I can recall the beginning of the fight, right as I began to lose control. In a flash the plan of the attack appeared in my head perfectly formed, presented as if I had carried it out countless times before: I’d swipe Orie's legs with my foretalons, causing him to lose his balance and stumble to the ground. With his attack on me broken up, I had an opening to swing around from the back unnoticed, scale his flank and bite him in the neck.

So, I did.

Then I turned on Starla, and… well, um, I attacked her too.

The optimal way to kill a Marten... I do not know of these things. What use would I have for such macabre knowledge back in the palace? And yet when my life is in danger, I recite it by heart. The only explanation is this is the instinct of the beast I have become, revealed to me by the will of self-preservation.

My stomach growls a second time, interrupting my deep thoughts. Yes, yes, I do still need to eat something soon, thank you for reminding me! But my hunt for the doe wasn’t exactly a resounding success, was it? My instincts may show me the way to defend myself when my life is in danger, but they have nothing to say when the dinner bell rings. I don’t have the slightest idea how to hunt.

If I had been born a Lithan on the Northern Continent, I’m sure I would have watched my parents hunt growing up, slowly being tutored by them over time until I was making kills of my own. But dropped into this body, here in the middle of Ellyntide, I don’t have the guidance of a parental figure. Heck, I’d never even seen a Lithan in-person before I saw my own reflection earlier.

How am I supposed to find something to eat if I can’t hunt? It sure would be nice if a feral could kindly drop dead for me.

…

…That’s it!

The scent of the bear was still strong by the time I arrived back in the field.

Yup, it’s the same mysteriously deceased bear we passed by earlier today. Here I was, wishing dinner could magically fall into my lap without having to put any effort into it. I nearly forgot some already did!

That doe might have smelled like some delicious baked goods, but the only thing that’s wafting through the air here is the stench of death. As soon as I entered the field I felt on alert — perhaps a warning from my instincts that whatever caused this deathly smell could still be in the area. But as was the case in the hollow, my senses reaffirm that I’m still alone.

I approach the bear, stirring a murder of crows from its side into flight. Okay, almost alone. I guess it’s not surprising my senses don’t consider small birds a threat.

But it makes me wonder… why weren’t the crows here when we passed by the bear earlier? The way I understand it after a feral dies in the wild its body quickly decomposes. The scent of the decomposition attracts scavengers who further accelerate the biological cleanup by consuming carrion. Shouldn’t we have seen them?

Well, It certainly succeeded in attracting me to the scene. Though I wouldn’t say the bear smells very appetizing. Perhaps Lithans are one of those ferals that won’t scavenge for food unless they’re desperate.

…Yes, I’m desperate!! I have no idea how to hunt! Throw me a bone, here! (Preferably, a bone with some meat still attached to it.)

Skreeech!!

My shadow overtakes a turkey vulture with a piece of ligament dangling from its beak. It spreads its scrappy black wings and takes off from the side of the bear, making a hasty retreat from the field. Guess it didn’t expect to see something as big as a Lithan show up today. I don’t blame you, dude. I’d probably freak out if I saw myself right now, too.

The birds have already picked through the bear; beak-sized clumps of fur are missing from its checkered gray hindquarters, revealing a patchwork of red innards. Through the largest hole, I can see torn muscles and exposed bone.

My feathers ruffle, turning cold. Am I really going to eat this, the bloody remains of a bear? I won’t get sick, will I?

I… guess I’ll just have to trust that my body can digest it safely! After all, why wouldn’t it, right? Eating meat is what a predator species like me does! And by all accounts, I seem to be a perfectly normal, healthy functioning predator! Yup!!

…

There’s… one other reason that makes me think I’ll be safe eating the bear. And, Um…

…

Listen.

I need to get something off my conscience.

I can’t keep lying to myself like this. To keep ignoring it, pushing it aside, and pretending this new part of me doesn’t exist.

I keep trying to remind myself that it’s normal for me to think certain things and to feel certain urges now that I’ve become a predator species. But I’ve kept my sensibilities as a Lemur — a Princess with a pampered lifestyle in a civilized society. My passion for botany, and a sense of duty to the Kingdom. A life that has been dedicated to the cultivation and the preservation of life.

So, when I look at myself through that lens, I’m downright disturbed by the things I now feel. By what I’ve become.

I don’t want to explore this side of me, I’m not yet comfortable accepting it. But when I consider the paths before me, even in the most optimistic scenario I’ll be stuck as a Lithan for days. I have to eat something. I simply have no other choice but to reconcile with this aspect of me.

So as difficult as it is, I must admit this to myself:

I love the taste of flesh.

They were all delicious, but it’s Starla’s in particular that I favor. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her since I left the hollow — the fear scent she gave off as I bore down on her. The feeling of fangs sinking past fur into flesh. The spray of warm blood rushing into my mouth. When I think of how she tasted my heart flares, and my soul sings.

What a fantastic feeling.

But I’ve been trying to distract myself from her death, to pretend it didn’t happen. As much as I loathed Starla for what she did, she deserved a fair judgment for her crimes, not death. I was horrified at what I’d done to her and horrified that I could derive such visceral pleasure from taking the life of a person in such an unconscionable way.

I knew all along I was chasing the doe because I was hungry. But I lied to myself because I thought I was a murderer. I thought I was the same as— no, worse than the animals that attacked us and took Calypso’s life. And that by acting on my urges for flesh and blood, I was only reinforcing just how depraved I had become.

But seeing the bear here, presented for me as if I had just hunted it myself, fills me with the same sense of excitement I felt hunting the doe. The same insatiable urge for flesh as I smelled its fear scent. The same satisfaction I felt killing Starla.

The unlucky bear has elucidated the truth for me — I wasn’t the sheltered Lemur Princess with a head of cheery convictions when I killed Starla. I wasn’t even acting in self-defense.

I was feral. I was a Dragon.

I don’t want to be afraid of myself any longer.

I turn my head to the ground and open my maw wide, biting into the side of the bear facing me. Fangs sink through flesh, blood spills out, and I get my first taste of Bear.

…

And I’ve gotta say, after having a few bites: It’s delicious!

On their own, the flavors are not very complex. Dad likes to keep a stock of feral jerky back home, and the taste of a single organ or a slab of muscle is similar — pronounced, but simple.

But getting a big mouthful of guts is a different story. The simple flavors mix with the blood and fat of the bear to create an explosion of raw flavors that’s irresistible to my Lithan tongue. As soon as I got a bite of everything together, my fears of being unable to digest raw meat evaporated. How could something so appetizing possibly make me sick? Nature isn’t that cruel.

It doesn’t take me long to finish off the meat of the bear. I quite liked that! I’d eat a gray bear again. In fact, I could go for another one right now, because I don’t feel full from eating just one of them. This bear was a freebie, but I’d happily hunt one down, or any of the animals out here to be able to sample their flesh as well.

…Gosh.

Here I was only a few minutes ago, getting myself all tied up over the morality of simply wanting to enjoy food. All it took was one bear, and now I think of the Weald as not so much a nature reserve, but my own personal buffet.

But it’s not like I have a choice, okay? I have to do whatever it takes to survive in this form long enough to see myself turned back to normal. If that involves taking out some of the local wildlife population, then so be it.

If it’s going to be me or them, it has to be me.

I should feel that way about the animals that tried to kill me, too.