Raskin leaned into the bird’s neck, guiding the animal with his legs. A single, black braid jostled along his shoulders, as stray tendrils clung to his sweat soaked face. Each brush of his back reminded him of his missing wings.Stray tendrils of what? What's his back brushing against, the braid, the tendrils?
The brown bird dipped low in the sky, swooping beneath tree branches to land on the deserted pavement. Raskin hopped from its back. His pale pink eyes widened as he watched the animal return to the open air. Jumping as high as a wingless fairy could muster, he grasped at the fluttering reigns. Then he stomped on the ground in frustration. That was the third saddle he’d lost in as many months. They were difficult to craft and even harder to get the blasted birds to wear.Widening his eyes seems like the wrong reaction. Wouldn't this happen too fast for a moment of non-action?
Pale pink eyes? Are fairies albinos?
“Over here!”This beginning is involving itself a great deal in description, a little in character development, and not much at all in plot. I would suggest seeing if you can get to the action a bit sooner.
Raskin’s cousin, Seth, hovered near a building. His iridescent blue wings beat out a slow rhythm that kept his feet just inches from the ground. Seth was, as always, the perfect picture of fairydom. He had the same jet hair as Raskin, but his lay in one pristine braid down the center of his back. Where Raskin’s tunic most often looked worn and ragged, Seth hadn’t a thread out of place. Needless to say, Seth had never done anything near terrible enough to warrant having his wings clipped.
Enid stood off to the side. Her delicate features and frothy, pink gown enhanced the beauty of flowing mahogany hair. She made a comical portrait, with the stance of a drill sergeant and a scowl on her face.Colorful language is great. The trouble you can run into, though, is too much metaphor all in the same place. It's not technically mixing metaphors, but they're all cheek-by-jowl enough to make your reader think, "Frothy drill sergeants? Dripping sausages and metronomes?"
Talbit waved him over. His stout, sausage-shaped fingers flicked toward his chin, as if to say, ‘Come on, then... we’re waiting’. Bright yellow locks dripped from underneath Talbit’s red cap, swinging back and forth with the wind like a metronome counting time. Being an elf, he was the only other of their troop without wings.
Raskin sprinted over to greet his friends but didn’t get so much as a ‘hello’ out before they bombarded him.This 'bombardment' doesn't ring true to me. When three excited people in a small group start yelling at fourth person, they listen to what the others are saying only enough not to exactly repeat them-- they don't listen so carefully that they finish each others sentences and give the fourth person all the information he needs as though tendering a report.
“It’s gone,” Enid said.
“They sent it in the post.” Talbit said.
“To some town in the States.” Seth continued.
“Enid only got part of the address.” Talbit paused long enough to roll his eyes as his bulb shaped nose quivered in a laborious grunt.
“Hey,” she yelled, “at least I got something. You got your trousers caught in the door, you dolt.”
“Right,” Raskin said, “where is it and how are we going to get there?”
“We know it went to a place called the Beautiful Goddess in a town called Berwyn.” Seth said.
“But the gnomes know as much as we do,” Talbit added.
Raskin’s chest tightened and a dull pain invaded his throat. It wasn’t an unusual pang, something he should have grown accustomed to over the last hundred years, considering how often the feeling of failure assailed him.This last paragraph at last puts us firmly with the main character. I would suggest going back through this scene and rewriting it from the point of view you've managed here-- less narration, more action, and a closer focus on the main character's experience.