His breath hisses against her hand. The air outtake has wrinkled up in protest and some muscle in there has torn under this abuse. Even at a slow, lopsided, damaged pace, the night air shoves hard at both of them. Big messy drops of silver ichor trail in the air under Alloran's morphed wings, scattering with every beat, tumbling to splash on any surface they fall against. Mostly, forest floor and the trees he's dodging with often rather narrow margins.
If Alloran was another biped he'd think to question Saturday on jumping, but he's not thinking ahead far enough to remember that she doesn't have four legs. The bieleverd's instincts are clamoring to shake whatever's clinging to it, limp away, and find a place to hide and lick its injuries. It's a lot of effort, ignoring those on top of being in a good amount of pain.
<Hopefully, not a place with an ambush I'll miss from the air. I'll demorph as fast as I can, but if there are enemies then I will be helpless for most of that,> Alloran informs her, and goes into a long and angled glide, trading height for speed and distance and soon clearing the heavier forest for a not-quite-clearing. Brush rises to meet them, snatching leafy branches against his underside. <This should be low enough.>
If she does jump or fall clear, he'll continue in this trajectory, carving a silver-daubed swath through the saplings and bushes until he can manage to land. It's not going to be a good landing, he's injured enough that he can't neatly touch down, but the important thing will be that he doesn't die, and will start to shrink before he's come entirely to a stop.
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If Alloran was another biped he'd think to question Saturday on jumping, but he's not thinking ahead far enough to remember that she doesn't have four legs. The bieleverd's instincts are clamoring to shake whatever's clinging to it, limp away, and find a place to hide and lick its injuries. It's a lot of effort, ignoring those on top of being in a good amount of pain.
<Hopefully, not a place with an ambush I'll miss from the air. I'll demorph as fast as I can, but if there are enemies then I will be helpless for most of that,> Alloran informs her, and goes into a long and angled glide, trading height for speed and distance and soon clearing the heavier forest for a not-quite-clearing. Brush rises to meet them, snatching leafy branches against his underside. <This should be low enough.>
If she does jump or fall clear, he'll continue in this trajectory, carving a silver-daubed swath through the saplings and bushes until he can manage to land. It's not going to be a good landing, he's injured enough that he can't neatly touch down, but the important thing will be that he doesn't die, and will start to shrink before he's come entirely to a stop.