Cricket Creek Bog shadowy and vague

Of all the pieces of the Hinterlands she had ventured, Magnolia was most smitten with this one. The trees alone were quite enticing to her — she was drawn that morning by the sound of a flicker against the bark of one, but when she eventually pinpointed the specific tree the bird had flown off again.

In its place was the call of a raven (@Hereby); the sound reminded her of home.

There had once been an elderly wench that she'd witnessed as a child, one who claimed to be a seer. The woman would throw bones against the top bowl of an overturned turtle shell (it had been bigger than Mag at the time, and likely half the age of the old crone). The woman would charge all manner of things to passersby for their fortunes to be read.

The raven's call sounded like that, and brought with it a good memory.

">think on it, smack! please, think on it!<" he desperately croaked, but already she'd flown off.

to return? he hoped, but his hope had become a measly and starved thing.

yonder settled on the branch, plumage smooth with a defeat he'd gotten used to accepting. nesting season was coming closer, and yet his overlarge domicile, had by now seen itself shared with three partners, none of which lasted.

it frustrated him! what was it he was doing wrong? or was it that his picks were simply the wrong people? but that went back to his inability to make the right choice!

his wings raised to his head, and then covered his face, as the purple-tint male released a long, frustrated scream into his feathers.

The sounds stopped for a bit. Mag listened anyway, turning her head, trying to figure out where the raven had gone. They oft knew where the best carrion was, after all. Much as she loved to hunt and to eat frogs, an easy meal was an easy meal. She began to prowl along again when a strange strangled sound erupted from among the treetops - it wasn't a crowing as she'd know it.

The wolf stopped and quietly surveyed upward, as much as she could lift her head up and do so. She did not want to climb any tree trunks, fight with the hanging moss from overhead, or potentially disrupt the shelf fungus that staircased along the trees in places; she saw a bundled body of puffed feathers eventually, but saw no head to the bird (unaware he was cowering).

The woman's head tilted one way, then another. She moved to the base of that particular tree and scoured the ground beneath, as if she might find his missing part. Instead she found puffballs - white mushrooms which grew very low and very round, some which were deflated. As Mag touched one with a hind toe, it burst with spores and she let out a quiet expletive as these drifted the air.

the sound startled him. yonder's head lifted past the feathers, then peered downward over them.

a wolf was apparently attempting to sneeze its brains out, or experience the ground's grainiest high.

as of recent, there had been far, far less of its species in the area. the two groups which once howled into the small hours of morning had ceased to do so. a welcome improvement in the neighborhood, but also unnerving.

yonder tucked his wings properly at his sides, and after subtly clearing his throat, made a caw pointed downward.

Aye! The bird had called out, and directed it down to where she stood. It was loud and bracing. It surprised her, and so she shouted. The bird was high up in the trees and when Mag looked there she saw its blue-black shape, and those beady little eyes.

I ain't gonna eatcha, ya flyin' rat. She called to the bird, careful on her feet. The puffballs had left a dusting in her fur she could feel more than see, and so she shook each paw to try and get clean of it. It was very fine, this spore-dust; it dulled her fur and did not want to move.

Step, shake, step, shake. She stopped and sighed, then glared up at the tree where the bird sat. Yew hungry? Like frog? Aye? Maybe, maybe not.

flying rat?! 

yonder was aghast; his wing rose to his chest and his rostrums parted. his sister would've done so for drama - but the younger raven was sincerely insulted.

he remained frozen in that position as the wolf waddled on below. the yearling brain whirred. his reply would be dumbfounding!

when the animal spoke again, the raven cut it off.

"WELL at least i'm not a- a- i'm not a, i'm not a walking... flea!!"

he stared down at the wolf, with hard intensity.

it was imperative that it did not reach his brain how bad he was at comebacks.