The Pouākai was the terror of the New Zealand skies, an eagle large enough to carry off a Moa. Man-Snatch Swoop. It spotted a woman in a green robe floating near the jungle canopy. It thought: Lunch.
The Langsuir looked up. She had red eyes and fingernails like knives. She was not a woman.
The Grasp of Air
The Pouākai dived, hitting terminal velocity. Its talons, the size of meathooks, slammed into the figure.
They passed through green mist. Beguiling Shroud.
The bird screeched, confused by the lack of impact. It flapped, trying to regain altitude.
The Wail
The Langsuir laughed. "You seek to carry death?" she whispered. "I am death."
She opened her mouth. Cradle Wail.
The sound was not of this world. It was the cry of a mother who had lost everything, amplified into a sonic weapon. It shattered the peace of the jungle.
The Pouākai’s sensitive hearing was overwhelmed. It lost its equilibrium. It tumbled from the sky, crashing through the branches. The Langsuir floated down after it, extending her long nails to drain the life from the stunned titan. The eagle realized too late that you cannot hunt something that is already dead.