ArchivedLogs:Three Pairs of Wings

Three Pairs of Wings
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Horus, Isra	2013-09-05 A congregation of winged persons.
Location <NYC> Village Lofts - Rooftop - East Village
It tends to be windy, up here, but the presence of plastic table and folding chairs suggests that nevertheless building residents occasionally make their way out to this rooftop. With a good view of Tompkins Square Park less than a block away it's a good spot for city-watching. There's a railing around the edge, though it might be possible (if /unwise/) to climb over it to the narrow concrete ledges beyond and from there to the fire escape. Centrally, someone has broken down crates and constructed a small raised-bed garden up here, barren in winter but filled in three other seasons with a small assortment of herbs and vegetables. The concrete wall that rings the roof has been decorated, painted in vivid bright shades by some artistic hand to add colourful cheer to the rooftop. The mural shifts in terrain One wall sports a beach, flecked with grass and seashells and driftwood and shore birds. Beach transitions into meadow, colourful with wildflowers and butterflies and dragonflies; meadow shifts into snow-capped mountains, subsides into piedmont and sprouts into a verdant forest on the fourth, alive with animals. The day is grey enough that the view from the rooftop today is unimpressive, a drab dim cityscape that has been threatening rain without bothering to make good on this. The threat of rain has not dissuaded Dusk from bringing lunch to the roof today, though, always glad for an opportunity to actually stretch his wings. He is currently seated on the wall that edges the roof, having pulled the folding table over close by; though there is food on the table he is at the moment instead tapping out a cigarette from his pack, lighting it with faintly shaking hands. His food /is/ being eaten, though. Perched on the edge of the table is Horus, taloned feet curled tightly around the plastic and his own feathery wings folded in against his sides. Pecking at Dusk's Tupperware container of rice and beans with sharp stabs of his enormous beak, there is little to immediately mark him as /not/ a freakishly large bird. Small hints, the musculature in his downy chest just a little /off/, the bright attentiveness in his eyes just a little too keen. His pecking is, at least, every bit as messy as the eating habits of most birds. Isra emerges from the stairwell, wings folded in and head ducked to get clear the doorway. Her posture relaxes when she gets into the open--vast wings stretching out once to their full span, then pulling back to mantle loosely. Her skin is gray, though a less luminous shade than the overcast sky. She wears a gauzy hunter green wrap dress that flutters about her knees when she moves, and the white athletic tape that normally covers her ankles also adorns her wrists. A black messenger bag is slung awkwardly over one shoulder. Her green eyes dart first to Horus, then briefly to Dusk before returning to Horus. Nevertheless, she approaches the table without any apparent concern. "Hello, Dusk." Her voice sounds ever so slightly hoarse, and she bobs her horned head at the bird man. “Heyyy. -- You getting sick? I have tea. Well -- I mean, I could make tea, anyway.” Dusk pauses with his cigarette still unlit between his lips at the sound of Isra’s voice, dark eyes sweeping over her. One wing stretches outward, brushing lightly against Isra’s. Horus’s reaction, meanwhile, is an immediate SPOOK, head jerking upwards and his eyes wide as he looks at Isra. His wings flare outward, and a few powerful beats bring him backwards to perch on the wall beside Dusk, head ducking to hide behind one of Dusk’s large wings. Not that this is a very /effective/ hiding place, with the rest of his body still visible, feathers ruffling up larger and poofier. “Woah, hey, man, chill, this is -- Isra, she’s a friend.” Though this reassurance doesn’t cause Horus to emerge, only to shuffle a little bit closer with a disgruntled harsh squawk. Dusk shifts his wing very carefully /around/ Horus’s head, losing Horus his hiding place as the giant wing curls around the teenager instead, tucking around Horus’s feathers in a gentle blanketing drape. “Isra, this is Horus. Horus, Isra. She teaches at the twins’ school. She’s cool. Promise.” Horus squawks again, a little quieter but no less raspy-harsh, his head turning to stare at Isra /suspiciously/. He scoots a little more sideways, nestling against Dusk’s side with an uncertain fidget from one foot to the other. "Thank you for the offer, but I do not /feel/ ill." Isra's shrug is more wing than shoulder. "I certainly hope this passes quickly, as classes begin tomorrow." Other than pressing back against Dusk's wing by way of greeting, she has gone largely still. It is hard to say whether she does so to avoid upsetting Horus further. Even the blinking of her eyes--perhaps her most human-looking feature, in daylight, at least--seems to grow less frequent. "Hello, Horus. I apologize for startling you. You are a friend of the twins?" Horus stills, too, his feathers ceasing their ruffling; he stays pressed up against Dusk’s side, tucked beneath the other man’s large wing. Slowly his head turns, glancing from Isra to Dusk and then back. Eventually his head bobs once in a tentative nod. “S’a friend of a lot of us. We were just -- lunching. There’s beans. And kale. And uh --” Dusk frowns over at the containers on the table. “Chicken wings. Some chai cookie. -- it’s all just kind of. Cold leftovers, sorry. You can help yourself to anything though.” His other wing stays outstretched, brushed up against Isra’s in light slow rubbing. "Well, it is a pleasure to meet you." Isra flashes a faint smile at Horus, fangs and all. "I ate before leaving the house, but am hungry again..." She sets her bag down in a chair--but does not sit--and helps herself to a cookie. If there was any doubt that a hungry gargoyle could look dainty while eating a cookie, Isra demonstrates it. "How are you doing?" The question sounds a bit less even and a bit more strained for the raspiness in her voice. Her tail sways, fast, slow, then fast again. “Jax cooked most of it so it’s actually -- good. Not the wings, though. That’s just -- some place down the street.” Dusk glances down from Isra’s face to her lashing tail, his brows briefly furrowing. “What’s up?” Horus shifts from foot to foot again, also glancing to Isra’s tail. His beak clacks together, a stream of quiet nervous twittering leaving him softly. “-- Nobody’s going to eat you man that’s what the /actual/ food is for. Besides, you’d be all -- gristly and terrible, I bet. Farm chickens are just bread to be plump and delicious.” Dusk’s wing squeezes tighter around Horus, and then relaxes. “Better than you, maybe. You sound kinda -- stressed.” Isra glares at her tail, and it goes still. "I am not going to eat you. Promise. See?" She holds up the half-eaten cookie. Then, to Dusk. "Nothing is wrong that I can discern--at least no more wrong than before in a way that specifically and directly impacts my person." She frowns, pushing the points of her elongated ears back slightly. "Yet I do feel.../strange./ Perhaps I am getting sick, after all, in which case I really should not longer and risk infecting either of you. As for stress..." She shrugs again. "There is some between the new semester and my ongoing legal snipe hunt. It is the productive sort of stress, though, and it is being managed." Horus relaxes, somewhat, eying the cookie for a long moment. Eventually he detaches himself from Dusk’s side, scooting sideways down the wall and then fluttering over to the table to NUDGE each of the food containers in turn a little closer to Isra. Here have -- KALE. Dusk pulls his still-unlit cigarette from his lips, tucking it instead behind his ear as he hops down off the wall. “Eh, I’m hard to infect when I’m -- actually fed. I think I’ll manage alright.” His wing brushes hers again as he leans in to nab a cookie for himself. “Strange like how? You seen a doctor or anything?” His own fangs flash in a quick smile. “-- or should I just -- not fuss. Feed you cookies instead. Maybe go flying. Maybe have a backrub.” "Thank you." Isra smiles--making an effort to conceal the fangs this time--and piles some kale and chicken onto a Tupperware lid. "Cold leftovers are a far cry better than those awful protein shakes." She finishes the cookie first though. It's a grown-up's prerogative. "I am not sure how to characterize it. Like a fever, but I checked my temperature and found it normal. By my standards. I have a personal physician to fuss after me so you don't have to! I have not gone to her, but this only started in the morning, so it does seem premature." The tail has started again, and this time she either does not notice or does not care. "If I do enough flying I may well want a backrub afterwards. I am heading back to campus this afternoon." “Like a fever? But -- do you feel alright otherwise, you said you didn’t feel sick -- wait, shit, I’m supposed to not be fussing, right.” Dusk chomps at his cookie instead, leaning one hand against the table. His wing droops downwards, one lower claw lightly tracing against Isra’s lashing tail. “You’re on, then. Flying first. Rubbing later. And the kale’s pretty excellent even cold. Peanutty. Nice.” Isra's tail curls--not very dexterously or tightly--around Dusk’s wingtip. "That thing has always had a mind of its own..." She lowers her head and flushes a darker shade of gray about the ears and cheeks. "I am sure it is nothing dangerous. I have too much of an appetite to be all that sick. " Abruptly reminded of her hunger, she tucks into the plate she had made for herself. "Do you fly, Horus?" This between deliberately chewed bites. Dusk’s claw curls just a little bit upwards, providing a better hook for curling around. “Appetite’s good. I --” His cheeks flush for just a brief moment, too, “-- /always/ kind of have an appetite, not being hungry is usually my first indicator something’s gone wrong.” Horus relaxes faintly at the question about flying. His head tips to one side, cocked with one bright eye staring up at Isra. His wings spread outward, rustling with a few small beats at the air. “-- Not /everyone/ with wings always flies,” Dusk answers this with a shrug, “I mean, some people --” His wing uncurls a little bit further, claw still hooked through Isra’s tail but more of it stretching to brush against Isra’s wings, “never really had a chance to learn.” Horus’s eye widens at this idea. His wings rustle again, and the next beats are harder, stirring up a draft as he lifts himself off the table to lift up into the air above their heads. He circles around once, coming down to land -- on Dusk’s other wing, settling lightly atop its peak in a precarious perch. “We’ve been practicing pretty regularly. If you wanted to join in some time.” Dusk stretches /that/ wing a little bit wider, bones flexing outward to give Horus a better perch to sit on; if he’s bothered by the teenager’s weight against the delicate-looking slender bones, it certainly doesn’t show. Isra follows Horus's flight path, a half smile lingering on her lips. "Marvelous! I can only glide, but I once thought flight of any sort was impossible for me." She turns and leans into Dusk, tilting her head forward so as not to gore him with her horns. "I remember making calculations about it, but the the wings were /smaller/ then, and I not nearly as strong as I am now." She studies Horus balanced on Dusk’s other wing. Her tail coils tighter around his claw. "And as strong as I am now, I cannot do /that!/ I have a long way to go on the powered flight front." Horus drops his head, beak stroking lightly against Dusk’s mop of messy hair, gently preening it down into some semblance of order. His wings rustle again, and he pokes his beak in Isra’s direction with a questioning warble. “Hm? Oh, uh -- I mean, I’ve been helping teach, I guess, but it helps to --” Dusk’s wing settles downward, draped loosely against Isra’s. “-- have a good student. It’s been interesting. I’ve never /taught/ anyone to fly before though -- sometimes I’ve tried explaining it to friends who can’t.” Isra settles her wings down across her shoulders and picks at the remaining food on her plate. "I /am/ a professional student," she concedes, "but that probably would not have saved me when I fell!" Looking past Dusk at Horus, she adds, "Whatever he might say, he is a fine flight instructor." Horus’s beak strokes against Dusk’s hair again, giving it one more very /careful/ precise touch-up. Dusk immediately undoes this hard work by scruffing his fingers through his hair until it is back in its previous tousled state. Horus’s chest puffs out at this, and the bonk of his head to Dusk’s comes with a puff of breath very like a sigh. His wings flutter again, and he takes off, landing for a moment on the wall. He warbles something, quick and quiet, and then glances between the others one more time before spreading his wings again and taking off. Dusk’s nose crinkles. He watches Horus for a moment, but then just curls his wing in closer around Isra. “How /is/ that going? I mean. The professional student -- thing, uh. Fighting with Columbia?” Isra tilts her head slightly to one side and waves at Horus as he departs. "He is very graceful." The last bit of kale goes in her mouth, and she set the lid down. "It might have been more accurate to say /ex/-professional student. I had a lawyer contact Columbia, but their response essentially comes down to 'bring it'." She gazes out over the gray cityscape. "Now I am not so certain I /should/ resort to litigation, even if I have a chance of winning, which is questionable." “He’s beautiful,” Dusk replies quietly, dark eyes following the shrinking silhouette of Horus against the grey afternoon sky, “but so many people treat him like --” One wing shrugs. “He’s a little skittish around strangers.” When Horus retreats far enough to be hard to discern, his attention shifts back to Isra, posture shifting to angle more towards her. “Should? I mean, by what standards? I don’t know if fighting this kind of thing is -- it’d be long and exhausting and I don’t know who can judge /should/ or /shouldn’t/ there. What do you /want/ to do?” "/Other./" Isra trails long, taloned fingers over the back of the chair in front of her. "The ease with which many humans dismiss the personhood of even their own is appalling. How much easier to do it to one who looks so different from themselves. I am...glad that such treatment has not robbed him of the ability to connect." She sighs and looks down at her hands. "There are individuals, if not groups, in the student body who will respond proactively to my suit, perhaps even with violence. How far will the ripples reach? Will they harass my faculty advisor? Friends? Family? And all for a vanishingly slim chance to prove a point. " When she turns to meet Dusk’s eyes, there is an edge in her gaze. "I /want/ to fight anyway." “Oh, they’ll -- do all of that, probably. But the thing is -- even if you never fought. They’d do it eventually. To you, or to someone else -- fighting’s the only thing that’ll turn that /around/. Dusk looks downward, too; one of his hands drops to rest over Isra’s, curling slim fingers around her taloned ones. “And you’ve got people who’ll be standing by you whichever way you choose.” Isra nods--just once, barely perceptibly. “I know that, /rationally/. I just wasn’t sure I was prepared /emotionally/. But then...no one is ever truly prepared for life to happen. I have been dealt a better hand than most in so many ways, and I mean to play it, come what may.” Her ears flick forward, then back again, and her tail finally uncoils from Dusk’s claw. “It will have to wait until next week, one way or another, as I have to be on campus all day tomorrow. So, shall we go flying?” “Emotionally --” Dusk lifts a wing in a small shrug. “Emotionally, I don’t know how much you ever really /can/ be prepared. Just. Do the best you can. And deal with the shit when it comes.” His fangs flash in a small smile. “Cuz it /will/ come.” His hand squeezes hers lightly, and then drops to his side. When her tail drops away, his wings sag downwards for a moment and then stretch out behind him, flexing wide. He moves towards the wall, hopping lightly up to crouch on it and extending a hand to Isra once he’s straightened into standing -- it’d look precarious if not for the enormous wings promising some measure of safety if he falls. “That sounds -- excellent.”