Raven doesn’t necessarily consider himself beneath the royal zepher, but he was certainly willing to admit that the other bird was impressive. Shiny and pretty and definitely worth collecting. When Lucius takes off, inviting Raven after him, the little black bird only hesitates for a moment. He casts a glance to the kitsune, not wanting to offend either of his two new friends, but Lyra seems content to sit on her rocks and Raven decides that’s clearly good enough. He takes off, following Lucius with a caw, always happy to play in the sky. Raven, to his credit, is an astoundingly good flier. He may be young, but he’s been teaching Weaver. She’s not as small and not quite as capable, but he’s thought her quite a lot.

Weaver watches the companions for a moment, a smirk on her lips at their antics. Raven is perhaps her only true soft spot, though she finds she’s growing a few more of those around here. The Basin and its members were slipping into cracks in her armor that she never knew she had. But Raven trumped all, because he was her soul, flitting through the sky and living in this world separate from her body. Well, he was whatever soul she possessed, which wasn’t much, but it was something.

She wouldn’t be surprised to find his magic came with a price. All magic does. She’d died for her power of resurrection. She’d been dangled high off the ground before her mother gave her wings. She’s not entirely sure what the witch took from her for the supposed gift of horns, because she never said, and it’s never been obvious, but she assumes the witch took something in return. No one just gives things like that away for no reason. Though Weaver had always paid the price for her magic herself. She’s never watched someone else pay the price for her, though the idea has some appeal…

But no. It makes her stronger to pay that price. It betters her. Makes the magic even more real to her to inflict the necessary situations upon herself. And sometimes it’s just been necessary. There had been no one else to die in her place when Death closed in, and so she met him willingly, hoping her death would be enough to stop him from taking everyone. There probably could have been someone else to dangle over the earth, but then what would she have needed wings for?

She is used to pain. Her life has been nothing but aches and bruises and fights. Yes, the transformation hurts, but she seeks no aid for it. How could one help anyway, as bones break and reform? As muscles tear and skin reshapes itself, turns from feathers to fur? He barks in laughter as she settles back down in her rather awkward position, and she grins, her playful, Cheshire grin.

He starts to talk again, finishing lamely, and she laughs again. Yes, at him, but in good humor, with that mischievous glint in her amber eyes. It’s all in good fun, but she just can’t help herself. “Do the horses you meet here often live far away?” she asks, somewhat teasing, and somewhat curious if this place ever gets visitors that don’t stay. “But yes, I do. I live in the Basin. And what about you, Mesec?”

- weaver -