[ closed ] I got patience on my neck like a cold, cold knife

[gramarye]

Who: Wolfgang
What: A strange event in the river.
Where: The Gross Tar between Dog Fenn and Badside
When: Coardi evening
Warnings: Animal death

The closest El stop to Badside is in Dog Fenn. That suits Wolfgang anyway; his house is near the river, it's not much of a trip. Walk a couple blocks, catch a ride over the river if he's too tired to walk to the bridge, then two blocks home. Simple. Still, it takes longer than it should because he stops most of the time to feed the crows.

Wolfgang knows perfectly well that feeding strays and wild animals is a bad idea, but he can't help it; he's soft-hearted. They gather on his property, always in a flock of thirteen, sitting on the roof or the front porch. He doesn't think twice about it because unlike cats, crows don't scare him. They're clever birds who talk to each other; he read a study once about how crows can remember specific faces, describe them to other crows, and tell each other about the person associated with it, that if someone is nice, they'll remember it for generations, and that if they're cruel to them, they'll warn every other crow and retaliate.

People should be nice to crows.

So he is. He picks up some naan on the way home and stops by the river, sitting by the bank where he always does. There's about a six foot drop from where he's sitting to the waterline, and the bank in this part of Baedal is largely rocky and a little dangerous. He sits with his legs dangling over the side, breaking off bits of bread and tossing them back for the small murder that is gathering around him. One of them alights next to him, one he recognises by the tiny bald patch on its head. It follows him to and from work sometimes, waiting for his lunch break because it knows he will feed it. He holds out a hand for it to examine, but frowns when it suddenly takes wing again. His head turns upwards, following it, but it's almost too swift to see, and —

The next thing he knows he hears a splash as the crow plunges into the river below him.

He knows better than to get into the river, that people and things live in there and not all of them are friendly, but —

He rolls up his sleeves anyway and carefully climbs his way down to the rocky bank, wading into the water and searching until he finds it. The crow is heavy as a stone in his hand, weighed down by the water in its feathers. It is dead.

He's standing there in the river holding a dead bird and wondering why he feels so sad about it, not to mention how weird because it was fine not even five minutes ago, when a hunch compels him to look upwards. Then he shrieks and hurls himself to the side just in time to avoid having his head bashed in as a dozen dishwasher-sized stones drop out of nowhere and slam into the surface of the water, their size and quantity enough to create waves forceful enough to push him clear to the other side of the river.

His back bumps against a large rock, and he's dazed, staring at the other side, his heart pounding and breath coming in in pants from the adrenaline. "What the fuck was that," he says, lowly under his breath.

Thoroughly wet, he manages to haul himself back up the bank, still holding the dead crow. He frowns at it for a moment before his gaze goes back to the river, unnaturally serene now — not even a ripple to indicate the disturbance of those stones. The hair on the back of his neck stands up, and when he turns to go and bury the crow, he moves slightly swifter than is absolutely necessary.