The ravens tell her of the boy in the meadow with the sand around his feet. There is no sand in the meadow! they squawk. But there is sand at his feet! It still amuses her how amazed the ravens are by some of these things. They know to expect the sand, of course, but they come to her excited anyway. Perhaps not at the sand, but at having something new and different to report to her. She does enjoy new and different things (or old and returned and different things, either way). She smiles at her birds, and they seem pleased with themselves, ruffling their feathers before launching back into the sky to scout for more.
Because of the ravens, it is rare that Straia goes somewhere without a purpose. She shifts, leaving the Chamber behind as she takes to the sky with the rest of her ravens. It makes travel easier, moving with the other birds far above so many watchful eyes in Beqanna. Besides, she will be hated soon enough, and her life will always be in jeopardy. The stronger she makes her kingdom, the more she puts a target on her own head. She knows this, but the risk is well worth the reward.
The Chamber is growing. The Chamber is powerful. The Chamber is not to be forgotten.
She lands not that far away from the stallion with the bruised eyes, just a raven in the grass for a moment. She shifts back though, always enjoying a bit of fanfare now and again. Okay, usually enjoying a bit of fanfare. She retains the crown of raven feathers that sits on her head, though when she shifts, she is otherwise fully horse. She could keep more, of course, but that seems like overkill. The crown is perfect.
“Hello,” she says easily, naturally, as if she hadn’t clearly sought him out. She has not real reason other than the fact he seems interesting, and from there, she has yet to make any judgments. “Straia. May I ask your name, sandman?” She won’t hide her interest, either. Sometimes it does her well to be straightforward.
straia
the raven queen of the chamber
Use of mild power playing is allowed; no injuries without permission