He soars right over it - fast little thing. Fast little feathery thing. He pivots immediately and recovers, hooves spraying up chips and scrapes of bark.

It's still talking. It doesn't use words. Bitey bares his wide pointed teeth, spits out a menacing hiss-noise. No words for the feather-thing. Instead he swings on after it, a furred streak. He'll catch it, toss it somewhere. Play some trick.

Get back here, little feather-thing.