Hushed Willows Beneath the Bowed Head of Mother Willow

if mistrust were a knife, it would've stabbed the wolf in the gut.

his shaggy feathers ruffled further, wings unfurled; weak attempt at being intimidating. he liked neither the hunter's tone, nor its glossy mossy eyes - the pupils were too stark against the iris.

he flapped his wings, looking to fly, when the mammal offered a name.

yonder stilled, turned. his mandible went slack. he looked at the wolf as if it'd spoken in crisp corvitch to him. 

did it not understand the value of names??

now he was saddled with its, this "amalia" word, and every bit of custom held so dearly to his gizzard pushed him to act a lawful man.

"thirteen." he croaked back. alias for what he could still assure himself was likewise an alias.

and then it would've been just awkward not to talk.

"what is wrong with you??"