I sat across the table from Domina. Her turquoise feathers shimmered in the pale afternoon light. I spoke of my intellectual pursuits, and hope-filled desire to return home. She listened politely, nodded, and coyly preened her plumage.

A moment later, a servant set a plate before us. A practiced diplomacy stifled my gasp.

“It is the traditional offering for the rite of giving thanks,” She explained. “Although once wild, most are now grown on farms and bred for size. While there are some who frown on eating the flesh of beasts, the animals are barely sentient, and the tradition for our people has deep emotional roots.”

I stared at the small biped that lay trussed in front of me. The knees were tucked under it’s belly and the arms were tied behind it’s back. The creature was headless. It’s crisp skin basted and caramelized to a rich golden brown. Inside the cup of its curled black fingers, a small bowl held a single red segmented fruit.

“White meat or dark?” My host inquired.