for gold and glory

Aster bobbed her head encouragingly. Small victory, that; the blue jay hadn’t expected Medusa to acknowledge she’d been the aggressor. But the wolf’s question puzzled her—because it was so basic, she tripped over how to explain a concept that came naturally to her—so Aster paused to let herself think.

“Well, my feathers actually grow and fall out in periodic cycles. If I’d known you wanted them, I could’ve collected my feathers for you as they fall out, and you could have a nice collection the next time you saw me.” She chittered and hopped in place. “However, it hurts when my feathers are plucked out before they’re ready to fall out on their own. So? You understand? If you asked and waited, you could have a whole bunch of feathers without causing me any pain at all. Unlike how you got that feather next to your paws.”

Another insult flicked on her tongue, but she held her beak and breathed in until she thought her lungs might burst. “But because you were mean, I acted mean. Because nobody likes pain, right? You don’t want people to rip your whiskers out of your muzzle. I don’t want my feathers ripped out. But they fall out on their own, so if I wanted your whisker and you wanted my feather, we could trade. Not that I want your whisker. But that would be a fair trade, right? And both parties would be happy. No meanness.”