A rag-winged shadow wheels low over the ridgeline, turning slow circles like it owns the sky. Its feathers are smoke-dark and greasy at the tips, but the neck shows sickly, mangy tufts—patches where old blood has crusted and dried. When it drops, it drops with purpose: talons scissoring open, eyes bright and hungry, already weighing the fall.

The beak is too big, too blunt, and stained with filth—made for splitting hide and popping joints, not picking at scraps. It doesn’t wait for death; it arranges it, hauling screaming prey upward and letting gravity finish the pact it was born from. Below its roost, the rocks glitter with bleached shards and picked-clean ribs, a killing ground where cult-fire scavengers come to bargain. And when the village drums start thundering, the boneflayer tilts its head—listening—deciding whether the noise is warning… or dinner bells.