Sawtooth Spire Here are the holy birds

The deep wood sires a sooty specter. They are female, watchful and wary, nevertheless receptive of this little call to sojourn. His mouth curls but he remains still. She is wise to be vigilant, there are strangers rustling the leaves and devilry in the wind. He thinks in her moon-eyes she knows it.

He opens his ears to receive an uncommon tongue.

“Such a lovely accent” He trills. Softly, soothingly, a sweetness upon his timbre for the flighty starling that does not befit his pitch black pretense. “Which languages do you speak?”

He seats himself gracefully while his dribbling velvety coat pools river water around his paws.