Ravensblood Forest hippity-hop, all the way to the birdie boiler

The bird was a peculiar creature. And, briefly, Anselm wondered if it was alone in its eccentricities. Perhaps all birds (of some measurable degree) were as mindless - no, childish - as this one. Anselm was a patient youth. He was not dissuaded from his route nor caught in the inescapable urge to maim the vile thing which coasted so pleasantly beyond his reach; however, a thought did occur to him.

He paused and watched the creature coast, lifting his head slightly so that his eyes could follow the stygian figure. The question that rose to his lips was unaffiliated with anything the bird had said thus far - he wasn't berating it, nor coaxing it for further irritation. Rather, he queried for information. Raven. You are a friend to that feral creature — does it have a name?

Perhaps it was rude to refer to another living, breathing wolf as an it, but after their brief encounter, Anselm was honestly at a loss; he could not tell in that short span, with those few words shared, who or even what the beast had been.