"Unfortunately not. That one," he says, motioning to the Antivan City raven he is actually after (who is presently has casually alighted into a higher roost). "Has decided she doesn't care to make the trip."
Denerim, meanwhile, leaves off pursuit of the post earring and turns her attention to the picking at the collar of her new best friend's coat. This, evidently, is a more serious crime. It prompts Flint to catch the bird with both hands and to bodily remove her from his shoulder with an aggrieved crawk of protest. She makes no effort to escape however, reduced to a fat bundle of dead weight between his hands. No, don't put her back on her perch; she's too charming not to give a treat to. Look, her feet are broken. If he tries to set her there, she'll just flop dramatically back off—
Apparently birds can't read memos about being appropriately intimidated by Riftwatch's Commander.
“Dear me,” Petrana says, mild, having given up entirely on disguising her smile. She is, likewise, rarely appropriately intimidated by the Commander; perhaps not never. “I'm not sure I've ever seen them in such a state. Have you tried giving them a treat?”
(Enough of these creatures know that word to swivel toward her.)
(Among their number is the fat bird in Flint's hands. Her head comes around, beak half opened in a parody of shock, her beady eyes dark and watching—
She makes no effort to squirm free of the Commander's grip however, content to be wolfish from inside his hands.)
"I understand that to have been the source of the problem."
Someone was swarmed the moment he took a bit of cured beef out of his pocket. Or maybe they've just been spoiled by some previous hand to the point of becoming professional nuisances alongside their roles of mail carriers.
Flint turns the bird over. She seems amenable to this man handling, her head swiveling around so that her attentions may remain on Petrana even as the rest of her body is rotated in the other direction.
“Despite the many strapping gentlemen at my disposal,” namely, two, “I am today obliged to send my own letters. I confess, I had not thought to try going limp in anyone's hands,”
thoughtfully, as if perhaps the fat bird in question is an inspirational thought-leader. She's got ideas. She's going places.
(Well, she might not be going places.)
“though I think I may, by a margin, give you the odds.”
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petrana;
"Unfortunately not. That one," he says, motioning to the Antivan City raven he is actually after (who is presently has casually alighted into a higher roost). "Has decided she doesn't care to make the trip."
Denerim, meanwhile, leaves off pursuit of the post earring and turns her attention to the picking at the collar of her new best friend's coat. This, evidently, is a more serious crime. It prompts Flint to catch the bird with both hands and to bodily remove her from his shoulder with an aggrieved crawk of protest. She makes no effort to escape however, reduced to a fat bundle of dead weight between his hands. No, don't put her back on her perch; she's too charming not to give a treat to. Look, her feet are broken. If he tries to set her there, she'll just flop dramatically back off—
Apparently birds can't read memos about being appropriately intimidated by Riftwatch's Commander.
no subject
(Enough of these creatures know that word to swivel toward her.)
ditto
She makes no effort to squirm free of the Commander's grip however, content to be wolfish from inside his hands.)
"I understand that to have been the source of the problem."
Someone was swarmed the moment he took a bit of cured beef out of his pocket. Or maybe they've just been spoiled by some previous hand to the point of becoming professional nuisances alongside their roles of mail carriers.
Flint turns the bird over. She seems amenable to this man handling, her head swiveling around so that her attentions may remain on Petrana even as the rest of her body is rotated in the other direction.
"Are you sending something, or expecting it?"
opens my arms
thoughtfully, as if perhaps the fat bird in question is an inspirational thought-leader. She's got ideas. She's going places.
(Well, she might not be going places.)
“though I think I may, by a margin, give you the odds.”