A Proper Stomp
Bloody hell, my joints actually bent! I gave my head a sharp tilt, snapped my long beak, and felt the dry air fill my chest. Spotting that slick black remote control lying just a stride away on this massive wooden slab, I planted my wing-claws down, took a clumsy waddle over, and gave the damn plastic stick a solid peck. It slid an inch with a dry clatter. Holy shit, I’m properly moving.