creator_raven | (no subject)

(no subject)

It is an entirely pleasant day, sun shining brightly, breeze softly stirring the grass, cousins calling out from the trees.

Raven hears them, climbing higher to escape the sound.

It is not always a bad thing to be alone.

But eventually he spirals back down, pulling up again just shy of the lake.

There are only so many places to fly, here. But he will take what he can, so.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

He is not the only bird in flight today, goodness no.

White feathers flash against the deep green of the forest as an owl glides from tree to tree, from perch to perch.

Black eyes do not narrow, and perhaps Raven's sudden drop into the trees is entirely coincidental.

In that same fashion, his choice of perch--a branch not so far from the one currently occupied by the white owl--may be random chance.

Or maybe it has little to do with whim at all.

She turns her head to watch him, looking back over one softly-feathered wing.

The snowy owl makes no sound, nor does she shift on her perch, yet. Golden eyes blink once, then twice.

They are uncannily like Bran Davies' eyes, actually.

Raven flutters his wings, settling more comfortably on the branch.

Black eyes are very bright as he tilts his head, watching the owl.

"I am wondering, perhaps, how you have taken to flying?"

The owl clacks her beak once, sharply, and then blinks at him again before hopping on her perch, causing the leaves around her to shiver.

Raven caws a rough laugh.

"The talking is always problematic, I think."

He flutters his wings again, perhaps mockingly, perhaps not.

"It is the benefit of no biology, perhaps. Some habits are rather difficult to discard, yes?"

One blink, then another, as the owl tilts her head-- but Raven's words are all the clue she has needed.

"The magic it is, then, and not the shape?" The sweet tone is a little hollow, but improves quickly.

"Why thank you, cariad."

He doesn't smile, though he might if he had a mouth and not a beak.

"I am often helpful, perhaps."

The tone casual.

His eyes are not.

"So nice it is, to be able to speak easily now," she answers.

Blodwen ruffles her feathers slightly against the sudden breeze and blinks at him again.

"Very helpful, goodness yes."

He tilts his head, looking at her out of first one eye, then the other.

"Flying is better, I think."

"Something it is that we agree on," she replies. "My goodness."

She stretches the white wings and then pulls them back close to her body, adding,

"I have always so loved to ride on the wind-- although never before like this."

He caws another rough laugh, beak tilted toward the sky.

"It is not a thing to be missed, I do not think. Though possibly owlfeathers are different."

"From other feathers, pretty bird? That I would not know, goodness no," she says.

"From other methods, why yes."

"You have a preference, then?"

And abruptly it is a woman sitting on the branch, head tilted just as the bird's was.

Sometimes feathers itch.

And sometimes it is the size of the body, instead.

Golden eyes blink again as the bird hops backward on the branch and then settles, sharp talons clenching tightly into bark.

It is very strange to hear soft lilting laughter coming from an owl's beak.

"I have been called the White Rider for a reason, dear."

Raven blinks, looking almost taken aback.

"The wind is colored, now, perhaps?"

Some might think it would be hard for an owl to show surprise, but it seems clear enough as she ruffles her feathers once more, staring at him.

"Only in the storm."

She smiles slightly, tilting her head back to look through the branches to the sky.

"I am not unfond of storms, I do not think."

"My goodness."

The owl flutters her wings and then beats the air with them, lifting herself to another branch -- not far away, but one that offers sure support.

The reason is evident when a flash of pink within the white feathers at her throat ends with the woman leaning back against the tree-trunk, not the owl.

"Something else it is that we agree on."

Raven looks at Blodwen then, head tilted, lips curving in a strange little smile.

"Possibly there are many other things, besides. Save, I think, for what we do with other people."

She tilts her head a little further, tucking one leg up to rest her foot on the branch.

"And the appropriateness of cages."

"Do you think so, cariad?" Lightly said, but there is an emptiness behind the ice-blue eyes as she looks at Raven.

"Why, I am not at all certain of that."

Raven wrinkles her nose, bracing herself on her hands and leaning back again.

"Are you not?"

The grin she flashes is quick and full of teeth.

"It is another common point, perhaps."

Almost.

"Perhaps," she agrees.

They are high in the branches of the tree, and the ground below is far. No sounds -- not even those of other birds -- come from the nearby forest.

A beat of silence. When she speaks again, the Welsh lilt is gone from the high light voice, replaced by something older-- a strange accent, perhaps from a time almost no one would remember.

"It is not as though I did not warn you, pretty bird. And I myself had taken your own warning to heart before, never doubt it. Do you not see?"

She laughs, warm and bright.

"I have never denied the warning, I do not think--not the one in the castle."

Her shoulders move in a swift and uneven shrug.

"Though I am wondering, I think, given my warning, why you prefer me angry."

It is an innocent enough question.

Perhaps.

"Oh, but you have given more than one, dear."

Lightly said. She shifts her position on the branch, drawing the white cloak more closely about her.

"And I would have thought you more clever than that."