FastEvil resting

FastEvil The avian historian takes their place in the story. FastEvil holds himself a descendant of some avian people now gone from the world, though no record names them and no living mouth can say when they last flew. Whether blood truly carries that far, or whether it is only a story he tells himself, he cannot prove, and he does not try to. What he has is plain enough to see: golden-yellow wings, large and useless for flight, which fold against his back like a statement no one asked for. He is also, by some twist of whatever was passed to him, deeply sensitive to sunlight. He wears thick layered clothing for this reason, head to foot, and the practical result is that he looks less like a bird and more like a bundle of fabric with an opinion. The wings complicate the tailoring considerably. He has found no one who can explain the sensitivity, and he has stopped expecting to. FastEvil has turned his attention to older questions instead: the ruins, the relics, the broken memories that pass for history in this world. He means to find what was left behind, and to read it as carefully as it deserves.