The aquila waited on its roof perch, ever more impatient as time passed. And always, always hungry. There was never enough prey out in the open, not of the good kind, the pure flesh that it craved. There'd been another on the field for a moment, but it was tainted and unappetizing. Not like this.

Shifting from one foot to the other impatiently, the avian gave a low-voiced cry as though to remind its prey that it was still there. And not planning to move, not until it had a chance to strike.