Phoenix Maplewood First Flight of the White Raven

She doesn’t hear anything, aside from birds chirping in the treetops and a slight wind soughing through the foliage. Slowly, Berserkir faces forward, eyeline cutting back to the river just in time to see a swarthy figure approach.

The color of the stranger’s pelt makes her eyes narrow. Certainly this isn’t a Svartravn but her biases run deep. When the woman’s tail sweeps upward and she speaks to Berserkir in curt tones, the Kvitravn’s feathers ruffle, though only inwardly.

Outwardly, she hides her distaste, keeping her mind on her mission. It also requires all of her attention to parse the stranger’s words, since it’s not her first language. She knows it, though Berserkir is far from fluent as it’s not her mother tongue.

No harm, she says in a thick accent. Look for Eventyr. She pauses to see if the name elicits any reaction—namely, familiarity—on the other wolf’s dark face. Look like me, she adds, her miscolored ear twitching as she flicks her snout toward the woman and her dark pelt, but no svart.