The bievelard grunts, and breath huffs hot and pained from its back. Saturday is heavier than Alloran was expecting. He stands with his half-furled wings and starts trying to use them to jump high enough to where he can flap properly. It's going to take that steel grip to keep her from ending up on the ground, with the slick softness of this morph's coat making it hard to brace against.

The first jump is more of a hop as he tries to adjust his balance. The landing probably doesn't feel great for either of them. Then the second nightrender cuts itself a path through the billowing canvas of a fallen tent, calling out to the first in what almost seems like a condescending tone.

Too focused to curse, Alloran gathers his borrowed body and makes the leap, wings snapping open, up - they clap together overhead and rebound - and driving down as they start to fall again. Even with the sound-muffling coat extending to the edges of his wings, they make a great soft WHOOOOMPH and the wind of takeoff flattens the immediate area, knocks back the standing nightrender, and sends jewels and debris flying. A second whole-body-flexing wingbeat and they're off, skimming - it feels like skimming - only twenty feet or so above the ground.

This morph isn't built for constant flapping. It mostly glides with the occasional wingbeat, which is doubtless easier on a rider, but it's also not built to have a rider. Alloran's flight isn't smooth and he keeps having to correct from veering, between injury and carrying a weight. <I hope you're all right,> he comments. Thought-speak doesn't really sound like being out of breath, but there's a degree of strain. <We are going to have to land before long and that will be challenging.>