Rain washed over a high cliffside platform in Minas Tirith.
Mud splashed everywhere.
The heavy thrum of wind filled the air.
A Big Thief Gull burst through the curtain of rain, desperately flapping its wings to brake against the airflow. As it neared the ground, it thrust its talons forward.
Its sharp talons dug deep into the slick mud. It staggered forward two steps to bleed off its momentum, then steadied itself. With difficulty, it folded its scar-covered wings and shook the rain from its body.
Then came a second, and a third.
They were no longer the corps of white death that once blotted out the sun. Now, their feathers were a mess, their bodies covered in icicles and crusted blood. Some were even missing a talon, cowering in the rain with their heads hung low.
Ola unbuckled his safety harness and slid down the Stuka's slick spine.
