Words Against a Claw

The mud squelched beneath Captain Owl’s talons, a sound both alien and unnerving. It had been the sound of his world just hours ago – the familiar, comforting give of the seabed beneath the waves. Now, it was a vast, silent expanse of grey, punctuated only by the bewildered squawks of gulls and the desperate gasps of stranded fish. The ships of Port Plummet, usually bobbing like festive corks, were now entombed in the muck, their masts stark fingers pointing accusingly at the empty sky.

“Where’d it go?” Gizmo, his one wing tucked awkwardly against his side, peered around with wide, disbelieving eyes. His usual fluttery energy seemed to have been leached away by the sheer impossibility of their predicament. He looked like a question mark etched in feathers.

Beaky, his keen ears swiveling, cocked his head. He’d always possessed an uncanny knack for hearing the whispers of the wind and the secrets of the currents. Now, his brow was furrowed in concentration. “It’s been taken,” he declared, his voice a low, resonant hoot. “I hear it. A distant sloshing… a muffled roar. Somewhere east, Captain. Definitely east.”