Qeya River how high can you fly?

backdated for around jan 18th

a sharp caw.

blackfell draws his crimson stare upwards to find perched on a bare branch above him was a raven, beak opening and closing as if laughing at him. beady eyes fixed on him, unblinking, sizing him up, measuring his worth. this earns a dismissive huff from blackfell as he turns in the opposite direction. fucking birds. he had never saw the appeal in them that his family seemed to hold so dear; but perhaps blackfell was merely begrudging, because his own had died as a hatchling.

the bird followed.

the soft flutter of wings and the rustle of branches announced its persistence. blackfell stops, muscles tense as he casts a glare over his shoulder. find someone else to pester. he mutters with a annoyed sneer; the flash of teeth still stained with the lunch he'd made of a hare. the raven does not budge, head tilting, mocking him.

he moves again with shouldering agitation, faster this time, but the bird stays close, a persistent thing; shadow flitting across the snow as it hopped from tree to tree. he stopped once more, turning fully to face it. the raven let out another grating caw, its feathers ruffling slightly as it stared back at him.

fuck all. he says past gritted teeth.

the bird tilted its head again, a soundless reply, before launching into the air and circling overhead. when it dipped down and perched itself upon his thick shoulders and ruff, he bitterly accepted it for what it was.