1 The Feathery Feast

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The Feathery Feast The only thing left of Wintloria was the forest, and there wasn't much of that left anymore. The trees were said to possess an ancient and beguiling form of magic—leaves that could wipe away scars, fruit nourishing enough to sustain an entire family for a week, bark that could scratch any itch, no matter how irksome or inconveniently located. As a result, the forest attracted much unwanted

attention from the sort of people who couldn't appreciate beauty unless they could chop it down and make it their own. As the forest grew smaller and the trophy hunters grew greedier, many of the animals deserted its branches. However, there was one group of creatures who stubbornly refused to leave.

There were only nineteen Wintlorian purple-breasted parrots left in the world, and nearly all of them lived in the Wintlorian rain forest. They were a noisy and deeply impractical species, constantly searching for

opportunities to sing another song or host another feathery fashion show, when they should have been worrying about their own existence. On this particular day, the parrots had gathered in the hollow trunk of the largest tree to celebrate their third feast of the week. The first feast had been thrown to mark the queen's favorite corgi's half-birthday, while the second had been to celebrate the fact that one of the parrots had finally found the piece of string she had been looking for all afternoon This third feast, however, promised to be a very special one indeed. Every parrot was dressed in their featheriest finery. They were all laying delicious egg-shaped meals for one another, and the volume of their songs was already

approaching a level that some may have termed "rowdy." At the top of the tree, a young male parrot named Mortimer was hanging up a banner that read: WELCOME HOME, CLAUDETTE. "Spiffy-whiff sign, Morty!" said Giulietta, an extremely well-dressed older parrot. "Need a spot of help hanging the thing up?" Mortimer grimaced. For one thing, the only person he allowed to call him "Morty" was Claudette. For another, he hated his species' obsession with always having to do things together. "I'm fine," he snapped. "I don't need anyone's help." "I know you don't need the help," said Giulietta, "but it's nice to have it all the same, what-what? If we only focused on the things