The tenseness in my shoulders trails from my feathers as I ascend through the pleasing rain. Unsure of which direction to travel, I wheel gently by angling the tips of my wings. All around me, petrichor blooms like so many saplings, purging any malingering malodor of corrupting magics. I think briefly on what a shame it is that there is no one but myself to witness this slow rebirth, only to be immediately proven wrong.
There is magic at work here, but I can feel no malignancy nearby. It takes but a few moments for me to realize that what I cannot feel is the vital clue itself; an unnatural absence lurks here, a glamour of stealth and silence. Here is a spell most prized indeed.
With an effort of will, I unfocus my gaze, rendering the world a kaleidoscopic display. There! In my peripheral vision, I can just barely intuit a shape picking its way through the ruined streets. Wherever it stands, the rain seems to disappear entirely upon contact with my visitor's outline. I take care not to allow my shadow to pass over the hidden figure below, and call out a greeting.
This is a risk, but a necessary one. To all but the wisest of humans, my kind are seen as a auger of ill portent, not to mention the other soilbound who dream of the marrow in my bones. If this being hails from moral seas blacker than mine, announcing myself thusly is to invite danger. Yet, if they needed aid, how could I face the dreams of my humans if I had simply walked away?
I begin whispering a rhythmic spell of shielding while awaiting a response. My hackles begin to rise but slightly. With a popping noise, the visitor's obscuring glamour drops.
A large orpington hen peers up at my silhouette. Her feathers are rust-orange, dappled with white, and she bears a collar of ethereal sapphire. Even with but a glance, I can tell the collar houses whatever protective spell the hen had employed. We lock eyes, and each consider the other. I know but a scant few phrases in the fowl language of Gallin. Saving me from revealing this embarrassment, she replies to me in a strained version of my own tongue.
Her name, she tells me, is Aisling the Brined, a follower of the Salted Path. I have heard tales of the selfless deeds her order is known for, but have not encountered such a pilgrim until now. It is said that the tears of her people can be shed to turn poison & set bone, among other great wonders. Humbled, I bow my head in deference while coiling closer to the ground.
Aisling explains to me that she has found the potency of her healing declining of late, waning with each new day. To the south, nestled in the Dismal Swamp, a conclave of the most wizened Brined nest in a concrete human shell. If anyone can help her readjust the flow of her thaumaturgy, it will be them.
I open my beak to offer my company and support, but she seems to have guessed the contents of my mind; before I get through the first word, she rebuffs me. The conclave lays but a day's journey away, she claims, and one of my......"station", would simply draw attention to her endeavor. I can hear the bite in her comment, meant to turn me away, but her eyes are telling a different story. Within them, buried just beneath the surface, I can see great fear.
It does not matter, in the end. Though we are from vastly different worlds, I can tell that her spine, like my own, was not prone to bending. No surprise echoes in my mind as she slips intangible once more.
There are many things my winged brethren say about ravens in private. To some, we are inscrutable cousins, shaped as we have been to thrive alongside humanity. Others cast us as the basest of creatures, insatiable gullets who devour the bodies and souls of the deceased. I have heard countless opinions on who my people are, and why we behave the way we do. No one, it seems has ever understood that simplest truth: within each raven's breast is a heart not full of blood, but curiosity.
I had seen the unmistakable signs of mortal dread eddying around Aisling, felt the lingering mildew of the grave in her footsteps. I would not leave her to stand alone. I pump my wings in unison, lifting myself into the light clouds above. Enveloped now in my own obfuscating garb, I glide my way south.
She would be difficult to track, but I knew now the signs of her passing. Even a great healer can be hounded by foes, daggers waiting in the dark. If any such blades struck at Aisling, I would be poised, ready to intervene.
No matter the risk.
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Objective 2: [An Invisible Hen] needs escorting to [the sewers beneath the city] for a meeting of their elders, but watch out for [a Lost Banshee] who is trying to scupper their plans.
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