Hushed Willows A softer universe than before

elbow-deep in a sea of pale purple and blue and violet flowers, caw lifts his head to the call, ears twitching curiously. it is not a call to fight! it is…a call to celebrate. to declare that these willow groves are faerie territory. yes! caw can do this. he does like to sing.

flowers abandoned for now, caw obligingly tips his head to respond. there is a roughness, an accent, to the edges of his song that shapes it into something not entirely unrelated to a crow’s call – and it is not even all the fault of vrána on his back, singing along.