She cried out her name and ran to embrace her sister, who was still locked in a violent paralysis. She fell back into her sister’s grip and struggling in pain as feathers moulted and the flesh of her face gave way to an ashen, cracked substance not unlike the texture of a log once burned away to nought but ash. And Shortbeak could do nothing but look on helplessly and running her voice hoarse in desperation, calling for help.