"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
What should clatter falls silent, dampened by the intimate cloak of snow draped across this barren landscape. In distant crags, fresh blood splatters set into freezing, the body of the kill picked bare by the scavenging birds swirling overhead. I watch their movements with upturned eyes. The glide of their trajectory, so seamless, reminds me of Iri's liquid dreams, of how I could lean into them and lose myself in their unbeating embrace.
The caw of a bird above shreds through my reverie and I find myself grounded again, yet unrelieved of the ache in my chest. I yearn for my sister. When I close my eyes, I can summon the ghost of her, the chestnut painted hide and the downy wings at her side, but this minds-eye illusion escapes me in a breath, leaving me more lonesome than before. Iridian, I thin—k— - no, I pray - Wherever you are ... I love you. I'm sorry.
Feeling alone in my entirety, bereft of the core of myself with whom I grew in the womb, I once again lift my chin. This time, though, my crystalline eyes slip closed, and in their place, my lips split open. For some time, the steam of my breath alone occupies the air above me, swirling and arcing and eventually dissipating in the wind. When at long last the song comes to me, I unleash it with all the pain in my being, allowing the echoes of my aching candor to lullaby me into total isolated abandon.
"Siren song: the ability to emit a song or noise that is extremely enticing to those who hear it. It may compel others to approach the singer and view the singer as extremely attractive, but only if within hearing distance."
Another raven crabs in her direction, flapping its wings and jerking its head at her as if it could shoo her away. Rolling her eyes, Raven-Dretch ignores it, holding her wings out to balance a bit as she hops from one jut of bone to the skull. The carcass has already been stripped of its tastiest parts. There are still bits of cold-crystallized flesh clinging to bone beneath the sunken hide and Raven-Dretch sticks her beak into the exposed, empty eye socket, hoping to find a morsel that she had left some behind when she’d first come with the rest of the unkindness. It is a fruitless endeavor, though. She shakes out her feathers and takes wing with a croak, leaving the true-ravens behind without so much as a farewell. She loves to fly, in any form, in any manner. She closes her eyes, soaking in the feeling of the wind rushing past and around her, the utter weightlessness of it. It’s cold, now, though, and her belly is full, which always makes her drowsy. Banking sharply to the south, she opens her eyes and is startled by a loud “caw” the moment before she collides with one of the ravens, no doubt following her in the hopes that she will lead him to another meal. She buffets him with her wings hard – as if he were the one flying around with his eyes closed – and when he pecks and squawks at her, she shifts mid-air, startling him as she flies backwards and zips away in hummingbird form. The sound of her laughter, like the tinkle of bluebells in the breeze, drifts in her wake, and she does not stop giggling to herself until the siren song hits her. The sound is something she’s never heard before, though it holds a weight of emotions that she’s carried before. It drowns out the low buzzing sound her wings make and she finds herself searching the stark landscape below for the source of the sound. Slowing her flight, she darts back and forth. Her heart thrums in her chest, the urgency to find the source of the sound overwhelming. Her search catches on a lonely form, partially hidden by the ruins of Beqanna, an area she is unfamiliar with. Any trepidation she might have felt in approaching someone she doesn’t know (one can never be too careful in the Beqanna that she knows) is drowned in the deep-seated pain and loneliness that reverberates in her hollow bird bones. She shifts again, a falcon this time, and plummets earthward, enraptured. There’s a bit of empty space ahead and just to the right of the stranger and it’s here she lands. Spreading her wings wide in order to catch enough air to slow her descent, she shifts once again, restored to Dretch-Dretch, four hooves touching down, long black limbs bending slightly to absorb the force of her landing. She grunts, catching her footing, and swings to face the source of her fascination. She tongues one of her fangs, tilting her head and eyeing the melancholy creature with the rapacious interest of a raven. “What is wrong with you?”
