Hushed Willows Drifter

as the stranger mirrors caw's own examination of him – he looks a little like dante, all pretty creams and golds – vrána squawks on his shoulder. she shifts her place in his fur, her wings rustling. she has never been much of a fan of strangers. but this time she seems especially concerned, and when caw looks curiously to her then back to their visitor, he catches the barest glimmer of...something? he is not sure.

the man tilts his head. caw mirrors the movement, staring intently at him with the plume of his tail swaying softly in the air. what is it that vrána does not like? maybe he is a saint after all, and caw cannot tell! his scruff bristles uneasily, and he draws his head back, trying very hard to recall how fionn had attacked him the first time –

then he starts speaking! and caw leans his head even more heavily to the side, settling back down. so he is not a saint. this is good. but caw is not all that new to the faerie court anymore – he is certainly not the newest here! – and yet he still has very much no idea what this person is talking about. he does not know the names taikon or tse or artyom, and whitebark stream means about the same. maybe important to the faerie queen? but the faerie queen is not here right now, so he has nobody else to ask.

"whitebark stream gone?" caw fills in, completely oblivious to taikon's particular feelings about the matter. for a prolonged moment he considers this, head still practically perpendicular to his neck, and then says, "who whitebark stream?"