ArchivedLogs:Quoth the Raven

Quoth the Raven
Dramatis Personae Alex, Heather, Lucien
In Absentia	2017-04-09 "Eerie."
Location <NYC> Washington Square Park - Greenwich Village
Behind a majestic white marble arch, a smaller cousin of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, this beautiful green space is a popular destination for the young, the hip, and the artistic. A huge circular wading fountain is the centerpiece, ringed by benches, playgrounds, dog runs, gaming tables, and lush green lawns. In fair weather, the park is almost always crowded with tourists, students, chess enthusiasts, and local families come to tire out their children and dogs. It is a glorious evening, and contrary to what certain individuals may believe, a wide cross-section of the city is in fact gathered to enjoy it in Washington Square Park. The dog run is crowded with yipping playing canines; the playgrounds are alive with the yells of those children whose (mostly watchful) parents haven't yet brought them inside despite the gathering dusk; the lawns are cluttered with picnic blankets and erstwhile sunbathers too comfortable to move now that the sun has sunk low, people tossing frisbees and reading and studying, one cluster of rather inept college students who've set up (and are frequently falling off) a slackline. By the fountain a small crowd has gathered to watch a much more talented group of breakdancers; far and away across the park a young teen boy is busking, the case of his bass guitar open while he plays, currently, a song from Ryan Black's first album. Nearby him a man has set up with a large bucket of soap solution and is creating enormous bubbles with wands made of sticks and ropes; whether it's the youth singing or the improbably huge wobbling rainbow spheres, this end of the park has attracted more children to the entertainment. Nearby the music-and-bubbles panorama, a sharply dressed young man is sitting and a Kindle in his lap and a tall thermos at his elbow beside him on the otherwise empty bench. Beneath him a black and tan mutt is quite preoccupied with gnawing through a bone. Nominally, given the Kindle, perhaps Lucien is reading. He hasn't actually turned a page in his e-reader in quite some time, green eyes lifted instead to track the progress of one slowly drifting bubble in particular as it floats over the heads of a small cluster of preschoolers who have been romping in the soapy playscape and slowly moves to light just atop the young busker's open case. Settles, lingers, doesn't quite pop -- just shimmers, a large translucent dome briefly precluding further donations. Just as the park is filled with people playing, eating, flirting and begging, so too are the park's many animal inhabitants. The bulk of the inhabitants, of course, are squirrels and pigeons -- as they are everywhere in New York's parks -- but there are other signs of life scattered around. A chipmunk here and there, scampering up trees and chittering to each other excitedly; the squeaks of a rat deciding that the green territory really isn't for him and booking it back to the steel and concrete of the cityscape. There, too, is an unkindness of ravens sitting in various trees around the park, swooping down occasionally to steal dropped food away from the other birds with a deep cr-r-ruck! One of these ravens in particular, though, is seemingly fascinated by the floating bubbles. It sits perched on an edge of the fence, head tilting this way and that in quick, bobbing motions as it watches the path of the bubble through the air. With a chirp-clicking noise, the raven takes to flight, sailing through the bubble on top of the case with an elegant glide followed by rapid wing-beats to get it back in the air, calling out a quick, almost laughing noise. The raven circles back around through the air, soaring around to land on the end of a bench nearby Lucien, where it fluffs up its chest importantly and preens a few little bits of soap clinging to its flight feathers. With the day being as nice as it has been, it's been about time for Heather to actually get out of her usual routine to enjoy a walk through the park. A walk for her, however, looks a great deal like a sprint for most others, and some in her wake give her dirty looks for kicking up dust and being pretty obviously a mutant. She stops suddenly in front of the boy playing bass, reaching into the front pocket of the overlarge and faded canary yellow sweater she is wearing to deposit a single dollar bill in the busker's case- but she stops suddenly. Her gaze, though hard to follow through the tinted goggles she wears, follows the bubble to where it sits. She clutches the bill in her hand. As with anything else, though, the bubbles existence comes to an end, and Heather carefully tosses in her contribution. The young woman looks up and around and, upon seeing the bird on the bench near Lucien, she reaches into her messenger bag to tear off a piece of bread from her pre-prepared sandwich and starts to carefully approach the bird. The young musician nods his thanks to Heather, his own eyes a bit wider at the raven that swoops down through the bubble. With one song ending, the next he begins with a crooked smile -- "Ravens in the Library". Lucien glances over, a small smile tugging at his lips as well. His eyes follow the path of the bird until it lights on the bench. Fingers absently drumming against the edge of his tablet, he watches the bird. Watches Heather and her strange quick movements. Watches the bird. The bird watches Heather, head tilting to one side and the other as she approaches. It side-steps twice, moving further away down the bench, headtilts, then steps forward once. It's beak clacks once, twice, and lets out a rumbling series of chirps sounding rather like an unusual phone ring. It bobs its head, head tilting back and forth, wings spreading out and quivering before folding back in. Around the park, the rest of the ravens take flight, soaring off into the sky. Heather pauses when the bird unleashes the series of chirps. She gestures silently to the bit of bread in her free hand and lobs it gently, though it ends up arcing over the back of the bench. A moment after the rest of the birds take flight, she turns on her heel to look first at the ravens that are taking flight and secondly around to try and identify what might have frightened them off. Now Lucien's gaze turns upward, watching the rest of the birds take off. "Well --" Perhaps to Heather, perhaps half to himself; his quietly accented voice is mild, it is hard to tell. "/That/ is not eerie at all." The raven clacks its beak and hops off of the bench to retrieve the piece of bread. It flaps its way back up to the back of the bench, claws digging into the paint slightly as it hangs on. The raven's head turns quickly, one black eye moving from Heather to Lucien and back. "Crr-ck. Eerie." Clack clack, goes its beak. Heather's attention snaps suddenly towards Lucien. From her pocket, she draws her tape recorder, putting one earbud into her left ear in a swift motion. She starts playing something to Lucien, "I am not sure if-" But hits pause when she thinks she hears something from the raven. Her eyebrows go up and she plays, "Did you say a word, bird?" Lucien has sat just a touch more upright in his seat, his lips briefly compressing and his brows hiking upward. His fingers tighten slightly against his kindle for a moment before he reaches for his tea. "Ah. "Eerie," he repeats, slowly. "Not that it makes it any less so." The raven clicks its beak once, twice, and resettles its wings on its back. With a hop and a brief flight over to Lucien's bench, it approaches him and performs a head-tilt-and-beak-clacking examination at the thermos, then the Kindle. It spreads out its wings partially for balance, hopping down onto the bench beside Lucien to peer down at the dog. Clack clack. "Maybe eerie. But maybe excellent. This is the first time that any birds have talked to me in years," plays Heather. She shuffles closer and then crouches down to get eye level with the raven. "Though I think they were talking to you and not me. Hmm. Bird. What words do you know? What is your name? What are your pronouns?" For a moment once Heather is done talking Lucien's lips part -- perhaps on the verge of saying something. Perhaps. Just as quickly, his mouth closes again, eyes briefly closing as well. His hand tightens around his thermos and, slowly, he lifts it for a long sip. His posture adjusts ever so slightly to shift his legs in between his bone-gnawing dog and the raven. "Did," he finally wonders idly, "birds /used/ to talk to you, often?" If a bird could give an incredulous look, Heather would be getting one. As it is, the raven replies with a cr-rck before hopping along the surface of the bench, dropping down to the ground behind it. It retrieves a pebble in its beak, flapping back up onto the bench proper and edging its way slowly along the bench back, eye examining Lucien and Heather with a suspicious glance. It makes its way back over to peer down at the dog -- and drop a tiny pebble on its head. Heather stands back up when she receives no reply from the bird, forehead a bit scrunched in disappointment. She puts a hand on her hip in response to Lucien's question, and then says, "I think this one was talking to you. Your question sounds like a trap question. Birds did not often talk to me." Her gaze follows the pebble as it drops through the air down onto the dog's face, and for a split second, a puzzled expression appears on her face. One of the dog's ears twitches at the pebble, her paw shifting over the bone as she looks up, head shaking to dislodge the small stone. "Assez!" Lucien's snort is quick and only mildly annoyed. He stands, tongue clicking to call the dog to her feet as well -- bone protectively clenched in her teeth, still -- and picks up her leash to wind it around his wrist. "These days you never know." He tucks thermos and Kindle both into a slim laptop bag beside the bench and picks that up as well. "All for the best, I suppose. I imagine if birds could talk to you, they would get tiresome rather quickly." The raven looks up at Lucien as he stands, then over to Heather. "Trap," the raven agrees, fluffing up its chestfeathers. "Trap -- crr-rk." It hops up once more onto the back of the bench, bringing it closer, and then with a quick scramble of wings, flies to land on the top of Heather's head, claws balancing delicately but not scratching. "Cr-r-ck." "Yes. I think a lot of birds have little to say but end up saying a lot of it," agrees Heather, head tilting up slightly when the raven lands on top of her messy hair. "I am Heather Brown. Codename: Timeslip. She and her pronouns," she plays on her recorder, using some audio that had already been recorded before. She adds: "And I seem to have a bird on my head. Usually they are not so friendly as this. Can you take a picture so that I can remember this?" "In fairness, not so different from many people that way. To their credit, most birds I know are snappier dressers -- but, mmm, messier eaters. I suppose it comes out a wash when considering who to bring to dinner parties." Even as he stands, tightens his hand on his dog's leash, there's a small upward tug at Lucien's mouth when the raven lands on Heather. "Codename?" A glimmer of curiosity has sparked in Lucien's even tone. "If you are a spy you've given the game up rather prematurely, non?" He is taking a slim black cellphone out of his pocket, though, holding it up to snap a picture or two. "Where should you like me to send this?" The raven reaches down and gently nibbles on the edge of one of Heather's ears, beak more mouthing than actually biting. Taking off is not quite as elegant as the landing was -- really, more falling with style than flying for the first second or so -- but the raven manages to get enough lift with quick, strong flaps to regain airspeed before hitting the ground. It circles back up into the air, moving in a slow spiral upwards before suddenly jolting higher, climbing along a thermal. "I would appreciate if you could send the images to timeslip@gmail.com." plays the recorder. While the audio plays, Heather chirps a high pitched something up towards the raven as it takes off, waving a hand up into the sky. Her shoulders lift and fall in a sped-up sigh. "It is fortunate that I am not a spy. I like the idea of having a codename is all. It's something that you get to choose. So it's really yours. And it sounds mysterious." "Yours. That it is. In that case I suppose I shall entertain the mystery and not ask you about it further." Lucien swipes at his phone before putting it away. His email, when it comes, comes from lucien.tessier@gmail.com, two attached photos of Heather with the raven on her head. Subject: 'To remember'; the text of the email reads, 'Your brief stint as an ineffective scarecrow. Or a very effective perch.' "Enjoy the rest of this lovely evening. Whatever intrigue you plan to get up to." His head tilts just slightly to Heather before he turns aside.