Hushed Willows Could've been the wine

that there is something maybe not exactly friendly going on here does not even ping on caw’s radar. (it pings on vrána‘s, of course, but caw is far too excited to pay attention, even when she tugs insistently on his ear.) he does notice, only in the back of his thoughts and out of the corner of his eye, one of the faeries speed off – and perhaps the loss of one member of their little group should have alarmed him.

unfortunately, it does not.

“virtute,” caw parrots, as always. it means nothing to him, unlike the names of most of the faeries here, but he nods eagerly nonetheless. it is still nice, even if it is not irish! “like yours also!” his tail sweeps back and forth over his legs, though he still has not moved from his commanded position. “this vrána.”

vrána gives a low, sharp caw of warning, but he only noses her affectionately, hoping to bring across some sort of reassurance.

of course, cats ate birds. which caw probably should have been aware of and perhaps a little worried by. but, in another on what is sure to be a long list of errors of judgment, the thought doesn’t so much as cross his mind.