After the ordeal, Cir could not fly. His wings had become fins. His off-white feathers were turning into light green scales. Cir’s family and friends tried to console him. Yet as time went on, their attention and attitude waned. Cir thought that his people were paying less attention in accordance with his growing uglier. Soon he would be as hideous as the other trench walkers. He grew bitter toward all the Fliars and kept away from the company of the Bottemars.
Cir was quite angry with just about everyone, including himself. he thought of self-destruction, but he was already dead. No more flying, no more pleasure. Cir consoled himself with the thought that the next Fliar to rest on his wings would be pulled into the slime for a week. Half a dozen rescued Fliars later, Cir was repeating the same oath and recanting each time.
On one of those days of self loathing, Cir saw a Fliar starting to descend very quickly. Cir caught her as she hit the ooze. he lifted her out of the green; he had saved another Fliar. And this one was incredibly beautiful as well as helplessly unconscious.