She would probably kill to have the kind of magic Mesec did. Not that she knows any of this right now, of course, but dude, his mother is the Goddess of dark shit. That’s pretty much her heaven, right there. She would absolutely be friends with the Moon Goddess if the Goddess was in the habit of befriending worthless little upstarts like herself. Also, she serves a different God, technically, and Sparky was a good one. That take no shit attitude also suited her just fine.

It was a beautiful evening, and Weaver decided to take advantage of the evening. She hasn’t messed with her magic much, but it seemed like a good night for flying. And she really didn’t feel like walking out of the Basin, as she usually does. So instead, she shifts into a raven, that ripping of flesh and breaking of bones sensation that is mind-numbingly awful coming over her as she does. It’s really a good thing she’s not afraid of pain, because damn man, that hurts.

But then she is a raven, and her Raven is cawing happily as they both take off into the purple together and out over the mountains. Raven is still a better flier than her in this form. She’s not entirely used to the agility that comes with being so small. But he tries to teach her as they go, twirling and diving. Sometimes she can’t keep up, and he slows, trying to find ways to explain the method without words.

She looses track of where they are, and they’ve made it all the way to the Heavenly Fields before she has any idea where they are. She’s been too busy happily twirling and swirling and maybe once or twice smacking herself into a tree branch (to Raven’s delight). The thing that brings her back is a sort of glowing horse, but she’s mid-twirl when she sees the horse and by the time she’s righted herself there’s a wolf there.

Raven and her both begin to circle in the sky lazily, watching this large wolf-thing that she thinks was a horse a moment ago as it plays with a tiny kitsune. Definitely a horse. Because no real wolf would just be playing with something it should otherwise be eating. Probably. She thinks this even knowing that the Basin would soon be trying to not get eaten by wolves themselves.

Eventually, she circles lower, staying off the ground because she’s a little concerned that the giant wolf will just crush tiny little raven her with a paw. Instead, she lets out a caw, forgetting for a moment just how to speak in this form. So she tries again, the words coming out a little odd through beak instead of a mouth, but at least they are words this time. “Fine night, isn’t it?” She says, enjoying the ridiculousness of that comment in this moment. She may actually be talking to a real wolf, she’s not completely sure.

- weaver -

The scene is hilarious, if you think about it. Beast and bird just chitchatting beneath the stars. But there’s something about it that seems too common to be hilarious, like this isn’t nearly as unique or ridiculous as it might appear. But then he crosses his paws like he’s about to conduct business and she nearly laughs. But the action has the intended effect, because he no longer looks like he might crush her with his paws. So she lands facing him, tucking wings to her side. Raven continues to circle above, more interested in divding his attention between Lucius and his curious call and Lyra, who seems eager.

Raven is less eager, but he moves between the two companions as they let him, investigating each. They are, in their own way, akin to all his shiny, collectable things. Particularly with their starred appearances, and Weaver can tell he’s trying to figure out how he collects living things. Which really means he’s trying to figure out how to make friends. Those two ideas are synonymous to him. He suddenly dives away in search of something, and she lets him go, keeping part of her attention on their bond to make sure he doesn’t go too far.

“Weaver,” she offers, the words sounding and feeling a bit more natural through her beak now. She’s used the form quite a bit, but being able to talk is a new thing still, and she’s not used to it. She’s always used the form for spying and fighting before. “Somewhere about here is Raven.” As if on cue the other bird returns, two rocks in his beak. They are smooth black things that catch the moonlight and glimmer. He lands, leaving one near Lyra and another a slight distance off for Lucius if the other is interested.

Then he hops back to Weaver’s side, standing there for a moment before hopping away a bit, examining the area. “Sorry about him, he really likes to collect everything. Usually he just takes my stuff, though sometimes he gives gifts.” She laughs and this still comes out as a caw. Maybe that is how raven’s laugh. “Can I ask what you are, exactly?”

- weaver -

Yup. She totally named him Raven. To her credit, there’s a real reason behind this. Once upon a time, Raven belonged to her mother. She refused to give him a real name because he was basically her babysitter. An entirely unwanted babysitter. So she called him Raven to be spiteful and bratty. And eventually, when he’d managed to slip into her heart despite wearing her mother’s eyes, when he’d earned a real name, she’d grown to used to calling him Raven. The name just sort of stuck, and even when he disappeared and she found him in an egg again, he was still Raven.

She watches Raven in his attempt to make friends. It seems to work pretty well with Lyra, who shrills loud enough to shatter glass at the little stone. She really wishes Raven could understand words, because she has so many catty remarks she’d like to share with him. Instead, she just internally rolls her eyes at him and his rocks. Though they seem to do the trick, the other companion coming down long enough to at least examine the gift. Raven hops around, eyeing the glowing moon on the Zephyr’s back like he’s trying to figure out how to steal the marking.

Dumb shit, she thinks, regardless of the fact the words don’t register with Raven. The sentiment does. He turns to glare at her with those beady black eyes, as if to say that he can totally steal a marking. At least very least, he can just stare at it as long as possible. Between Lyra and Lucius, he’s well entertained.

He hesitates on the word for his own form, and she wonders what he’s thinking. Monster maybe, but it’s a beautiful thing. Why are monsters so terrible, anyway? Maybe they are just misunderstood. They fight to protect themselves, attacked by those that are scared and simply throw the first stone. Besides, monsters come in all forms. She is a monster, but she hardly looks it. “I’d argue that the correct word isn’t strange, but badass or awesome or fantastic. It’s a badass combo.” She can’t help but imagine the damage she could unleash on a battlefield if she could shift into that. Instead, she can try to claw out some eyes and hopefully not get skewered in the process.

“Nah, normally I’m a horse too,” and just because Weaver has never been good at staying still, she shifts back. In this instance, she really wishes she could throw a few pops of smoke around or something just to add some fanfare.

Instead, there’s just a lot of pain that accompanies the shift, though she’s growing used to that pain too. Her body, in general, is used to hurting. After a moment, she’s back to her usual self, black and white with raven wings and a tiara of horns, the rune of death on her chest. And then, because it feels weird to be standing, she plops herself back down in the grass and does her best to cross her front feet as if to copy him. It’s pretty awkward and hilarious, but she rolls with it.

- weaver -

Yup. She totally named him Raven. To her credit, there’s a real reason behind this. Once upon a time, Raven belonged to her mother. She refused to give him a real name because he was basically her babysitter. An entirely unwanted babysitter. So she called him Raven to be spiteful and bratty. And eventually, when he’d managed to slip into her heart despite wearing her mother’s eyes, when he’d earned a real name, she’d grown to used to calling him Raven. The name just sort of stuck, and even when he disappeared and she found him in an egg again, he was still Raven.

She watches Raven in his attempt to make friends. It seems to work pretty well with Lyra, who shrills loud enough to shatter glass at the little stone. She really wishes Raven could understand words, because she has so many catty remarks she’d like to share with him. Instead, she just internally rolls her eyes at him and his rocks. Though they seem to do the trick, the other companion coming down long enough to at least examine the gift. Raven hops around, eyeing the glowing moon on the Zephyr’s back like he’s trying to figure out how to steal the marking.

Dumb shit, she thinks, regardless of the fact the words don’t register with Raven. The sentiment does. He turns to glare at her with those beady black eyes, as if to say that he can totally steal a marking. At least very least, he can just stare at it as long as possible. Between Lyra and Lucius, he’s well entertained.

He hesitates on the word for his own form, and she wonders what he’s thinking. Monster maybe, but it’s a beautiful thing. Why are monsters so terrible, anyway? Maybe they are just misunderstood. They fight to protect themselves, attacked by those that are scared and simply throw the first stone. Besides, monsters come in all forms. She is a monster, but she hardly looks it. “I’d argue that the correct word isn’t strange, but badass or awesome or fantastic. It’s a badass combo.” She can’t help but imagine the damage she could unleash on a battlefield if she could shift into that. Instead, she can try to claw out some eyes and hopefully not get skewered in the process.

“Nah, normally I’m a horse too,” and just because Weaver has never been good at staying still, she shifts back. In this instance, she really wishes she could throw a few pops of smoke around or something just to add some fanfare.

Instead, there’s just a lot of pain that accompanies the shift, though she’s growing used to that pain too. Her body, in general, is used to hurting. After a moment, she’s back to her usual self, black and white with raven wings and a tiara of horns, the rune of death on her chest. And then, because it feels weird to be standing, she plops herself back down in the grass and does her best to cross her front feet as if to copy him. It’s pretty awkward and hilarious, but she rolls with it.

- weaver -

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 -