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 Posted: Mon May 12, 2008 5:54 pm
She moves away after the encouragement, leaving Catchfly bewildered for a moment. Gaping at her, he shuffles back and forth sideways on the branch and regards her flight, watching the takeoff, the landing, memorizing every minute detail but not at all certain that he'll be able to follow those easy visual instructions. Lifting his eartufts high to let her know his surprise at this sudden change, he looks here and there, blinks his nictitating membrane, and then looks where she is. She moves so easily, and he knows he cannot do so.
But he might still be able to get there, even if clumsily. For a moment, he looks around, hopeful that perhaps his Minder will tell him that what he is thinking is a bad idea, but there is nobody save for himself and Fletcher. And she is watching him again.
Doubtfully, beak still open as he breathes somewhat more quickly than is typical, he looks at the gap, at her, and at his feet. Then, slowly, carefully, following each minute motion he has captured in his mind, doing everything exactly as she did, but a fraction slower, a fraction more jerkily, he half-spreads his own wings and pushes himself forward again.
He is by no means as silent or as graceful as she, but he has done short flights before and understands the principles. With that and Fletcher's own, silent instructions to aid him, he gains the branch, just barely. Scrabbling for a moment, he gives a short, sharp rasp and flaps wildly, eventually righting himself and sitting, gasping and panting in momentary terror, on the same branch as the bird herself.
This close, she is huge, and he is terrified.
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Posted: Wed May 14, 2008 7:42 am
"Well well. Hello hello, little bit," she croons leaning over to loom above him. Fletcher is a bit on the large side, for a Sentinel - she doesn't have anything on the Brigadier or Sleet, of course, but she's certainly larger than average! And with her feathers all floofed out and a grin upon her beak, well, it's no small wonder that little Catchfly is intimidated. She's not helping much with her actions, either, as she moves her head quickly to peer at him from a variety of different angles. Jerkily, hastily, as if she's trying to remember what a young Sentinel looks like up close.
Catchfly may feel a wee tug at his eartufts, the faintest brush of her Will, another little touch here and there, poking, prodding, then moving away. And then, as if just remembering, she suddenly takes a step back to give herself enough room to go about settling her feathers. Again she preens, carefully and deliberately, her gaze upon him while she works. Take the hint, she seems to be saying, preen and settle and get ready for flight again. A good habit to learn, true, but the repetitive action of preening tends to have a calming effect.
Curious, a mus pokes its head above her feathery shoulders, leaning forward to get a better look at the little wildtype that has captivated his Sentinel's attention so thoroughly.
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Posted: Sun May 18, 2008 8:36 am
As big and terrifying as Fletcher is, Catchfly certainly doesn't have it in him to run, or even to try and move away, and not simply becuase he is petrified with fear, though something of that nature probably plays a part of it. Blinking up into those pale eyes, he puffs his feathers and stays as still as he can.
The prodding and tugging interests him again. If the little one has any Will at all, he has yet to prove it to anyone, even himself. Such subtleties seem to evade him, at least for the time-being. He blinks twice and cocks his head, opening his beak a bit, almost reverting to his days as a fluff for language. Give to me, he seems to be saying. Give me something.
Anything.
Attention. Her step back gives Catchfly room to stretch out his own wings, test how they feel after those flights. And she is preening again, looking at him, and Catch understands what she's trying to say. Reorganizing his own feathers, adjusting everything to where it should be, mimicking the big aberrant's actions one after the next, he is almost entranced. Needless to say, the mus startles him.
Fluffing when he looks up and catches sight of it, he makes a soft, interested noise. Tilting his head this way and that, he regards it and eventually decides that it is most certainly not food. Therefore not a mouse.
"...mus," he says eventually, slowly. Then he realizes that she is probably expecting something. Blinking, startled, he takes a long time to think and organize.
"Catchfly."
And he dips his own head, indicating as clearly as he is able that he is referring to himself.
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Posted: Sun May 18, 2008 10:29 pm
Speaking without words, and he understands. He speaks without words, and she understands - when he looks up at her, head cocked, beak agape, asking for something, anything - she understands what he wants. So she nods, the skin at the corners of her beak crinkling in an ever-so-faint smile. And that smile widens when he responds to her unspoken prompts.
"Mus, mus, messy mus. Yes, yes. This one is.. what one are you again?" she singsongs, addressing the question to her passenger. "Snaggle," it responds wearily, clearly having answered that same question far too often. "Yes yes, Snaggle, tail stuck all the time, Snaggle snagged. Mus. Snaggle the mus, replaced Scratchy who used to claw too hard." Fortunately, her babbling seems to serve rather well to fill the normally-awkward silences left in the young fledgling's speech. She either has not noticed it, or does not care overmuch.
"Catchfly? Catch, caught, flies stuck in muck. Trapped in the sap, struggling and slow, like words in your beak," Fletcher nods, as if she is imparting some great wisdom. "Good name, apt name, matches the little bit."
And she is silent then, squinting a little as she weighs her next words. "Fletcher. Fletcher of feathers, feather-fletcher. Imp and trim, shape and rip. Feather-ripper, feather-imper. Fletcher," she mimics his movement, dipping her head to indicate herself.
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Posted: Wed May 21, 2008 6:52 pm
The tiny smile that broadens makes him mirror the expression. For a moment, he watches the Mus with great interest, filing away its appearance for some later date. He will recognize, he will remember. Indeed, he will remember and see descendents, if ever there are some.
Her quick description of him and response to his name interests him, and he considers it for a while. It's fitting, and if he were to understand the term "metaphor," he would most certainly consider it an apt one. But instead, he just nods his head in agreement to her, a slow indication of understanding.
Her own name puzzles him. This little fledgling has not learned such complicated things. This little fledgling is to become a Watcher, if not a meal for some horrid thing before he gets to that point. This little fledgling is not taught complicated things. Fletching is foreign to him, though it is probably somewhat foreign to others as well. Curious but unable to ask, probably unable to comprehend the answer she would give, he nods, then looks back over his shoulders.
Still no Minder, no Teacher. He feels almost disappointed. They haven't even noticed he's gone. The only one who has noticed him is just as strange as he.
Perhaps that's not a bad thing. Perhaps it is.
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Posted: Fri May 23, 2008 8:41 am
"So so few, so few words. Answer questions, can you?" She asks abruptly, cocking her head to the side. "Answer them, but not ask them, yes yes. Fletching, you want to know more?"
The russet-feathered Watcher falls silent, eyes squinted, as she appears to be sizing the fledgling up. And then, suddenly, when he is looking behind himself to see if he was missed, she moves forward. He is not her target (however intimidating and frightening her unexpected lurch might be) - a pair of leaves on a nearby branch are. She plucks them neatly with her Will, holding them in the air before his eyes. "Not coming for you, you know," the Aberrant comments, "all gone, all alone."
She continues her demonstration, as if she hadn't said anything about his current abandoned state. "Not feathers, but like feathers. Long shaft, fat plumes. You understand? Better this way, far better than rip rip ripping young feathers from young flesh to demonstrate," Fletcher glances at his wings meaningfully, as if to say that if he does not understand her visual metaphor then... well, she can find another way to demonstrate. "If one is broken..." and she snips one of the leaves free from its stem, allowing the green spade to flutter to the ground far below, "..no more fly. Wings loud, claw at the air, not good for silent Sentinels. So you use another, to fix."
While she explains, the leaves dance in the air. Through careful use of her Will she hollows out the shaft of the snipped leaf, paring down the thickness of the replacement shaft so that it can slide neatly inside. "Almost good as new, see?" And the leave twirls before him, whole. Close inspection would reveal the repair, of course.
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Posted: Tue May 27, 2008 4:19 pm
Others might have been upset, maybe saddened by Fletcher’s matter-of-fact comments about his abandonment, but Catchfly accepted it in the same mute way he accepted almost everything, simply nodding, swiveling his head forward again, and watching Fletcher’s demonstration eagerly. The slightest shiver ruffled dark primary feathers at her dark warning, but he kept his skyblue gaze focused and ignored that, memorizing each movement as was his wont.
Her explanation intrigued him, and her practical example made his eyes widen in surprise. He had never thought of something so interesting, something so strange. It wasn’t something fledglings were taught—any of them, not just something kept from him. Perhaps it was that the ancient art was unnecessary for any but one to perform. Perhaps not.
...but her name, he realized, was practical. She was defined by her task—or what would have been her task, perhaps. Fletcher wasn’t a profession the way other things were, no. But either way, her name defined what she did. Catchfly found himself, uncharacteristically, wondering if she had always been called that. Indeed, he wondered it enough to close his eyes and martial his few words into a question.
“Always called Fletcher?” he asked, canting his eartufts out to the side and staring wide-eyed at her, expression something adorable, hopefully enough for him to avoid getting eaten if he made her angry.
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Posted: Wed May 28, 2008 10:48 am
With the demonstration done and the fledgling's attention no longer on the leaf she is free to let it drop. And so she does, and so the leaf twirls down to join its fellows on the forest floor.
The fate of that particular leaf was sealed the moment she plucked it for her demonstration - for all that it appeared to be completely repaired, she knew that it would never be able to derive the nourishment it needs to survive. Such morbid thoughts whirl through her mind while the slow little fledgling engages in his silent contemplation, and so lost is the aberrant in her grim musings that it takes a nudge from the mus on her back to return her mind to the present.
"Eh? Oh, hmm..." and she cackles, ruffling her feathers a bit and puffing out her chest with pleasure. "Slow, so so quiet, but not so dull or dull-witted. I see, I see. No, not always." Fletcher replies, anger being as far as possible from the expression she is wearing. Having another Sentinel - even a strange fledgling like Catchfly - express so much interest in her is a novelty. A pleasant surprise, something to make her feel... not wanted, but acknowledged.
Almost, almost she reaches out to preen at those sideways-canted eartufts. But no, not yet. Social barriers are erected for a reason, and this ageless Watcher has spent far too many seasons behind her carefully-crafted walls. So she grins, and shrugs her wings. "Naming names, names lost to time. Not so important now, names of old, none would know or remember.. best they do not. Fletching - and sometimes imping - is what Fletcher did, among other things. Fletching is what Fletcher was best known for, called for, cursed for. Fletcher suits, near as much as Catchfly suits the little bit."
And she lifts her gaze to stare past the fledgling, lost in thought once more.
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Posted: Fri May 30, 2008 3:41 pm
He smiles a bit at Fletcher's praise, though mostly he tilts his head and absorbs everything she says to him, always always memorizing every little bit of everything. Suddenly, he sees her with remarkable clarity, for something so much older than him that he can never comprehend it. This flash of understanding makes him peep in surprise, eyes widening. A quick comprehension, a quick realization. Not only is Fletcher odd, not only is Fletcher shunned, Fletcher has been that for long, for ever.
Blinking, he doesn't really know what to say, instead suddenly going to preen his wing, mechanically and jerkily repeating every motion Fletcher taught him. The mimic, while it is slow, is perfect, down to the wing she started first. To the odd slowness, there is something more. That unique memory seems to translate even into the physical.
If she asked him, he could probably recite the conversation thus far, word for word. But she does not, and he doesn't speak. Instead, he stops his process of preening and looks up, tilting his head. Slowly, he shuffles a little closer to her and looks up into her pale eyes.
His knowledge of boundaries is incomplete, odd, different. Unabashed by the things that keep Fletcher from touching him, he reaches out and gently nudges at one of her feathers with his beak. The red brindled plumes intrigue and please him. So pretty. "...not same..." he blurts out, suddenly, as if the words will never escape unless he forces them out.
Not same: different colour, different pattern. Different from most Sentinels. Different Fletcher again, just like different personality, different behaviour.
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Posted: Fri May 30, 2008 8:51 pm
It's difficult to brood in silence at the best of times, for this old bird - her wandering mind doesn't tend to dwell on any one thing for too long, you see. It's especially difficult, however, when a small fledgling peeps at you. Jerked from her reverie by the startling noise, the aberrant gazes down at Catchfly. And she watches. While he preens methodically, she watches. While he tilts his head and looks up at her, she watches. While he shuffles closer.. she fluffs her feathers in surprise. And she watches.
The unexpected touch (a touch that she really should have expected, given how slow and deliberate his movements are, given that she had every opportunity to move away and yet did not take it) coupled with the unexpectedly loud utterance would have elicited a startled response from the Watcher, if she had not been so befuddled and entranced by his actions that she is, at least for the moment, unable to respond. Instead, she stares down at him, beak slightly agape, mind blank of words.
"Not same," she repeats, finally, nodding once to both express her agreement and to shake some sense into her head. "Different. Aberrant, they say now, but once they said otherwise. Not same, different, aberrant, alone. No others, all alone. None left, all gone away. Once there were halves, almosts, but now there are nones." Her words trail off as she preens at her own chest, gleaming beak setting feathers into their proper places, "All alone, Fletcher, nobody like her. Not sad though, no, no, not sad. Better this way, far far better. Safer."
And then, as if she's suddenly realized something, Fletcher snaps out of it. "Tsk tsk, head full of fluff. Beak fluff. Head fluff. Fluff fluff fluff. Neveryoumindme, little bit, never you mind. Fletcher talks nonsense, yes she does, and you'd best not listen nor be seen to be listening. Proper young wildtype like you, not suiting to be here. Go, go, go off and learn and play," and she gestures with her wings, urging the fledgling on.
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Posted: Thu Jun 05, 2008 6:33 pm
He tilts his head, eyes wide, and listens to her, the same blank expression of mild interest. It doesn't shift, mostly beacuse the vast majority of the words go past the little fledgling. He simply sits and watches, taking it in, taking in Fletcher's strange behaviour and wondering what it means, in his dull, roundabout sort of way.
And then she seems to come out of it completely, and Catchfly tilts his head in the other direction, blinking twice as an indication of his bewilderment. His mind just doesn't seem able to switch gears as quickly as Fletcher's does. But soon enough, he gets the message, and he understands. Nodding slowly, he looks back in the direction which he came, taking note of the time.
They will be back for him soon enough. He turns himself physically around, and then swivels his head to look back at Fletcher. He gives her an expression something like a smile and nods again. "Fletcher," he says, as slow and carefully as always. One last slow preen of his wings, and he pushes off, leaving the branch (and the peculiar old Watcher behind).
But he is not unhappy. He is merely curious, interested. He will look for her again in the future, certainly he will.
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Posted: Sat Jun 07, 2008 9:51 pm
Hearing her 'name' spoken without the usual curses that surround it is strange, moreso when it comes trippingly from the beak of a too-slow fledgling. She grins - even as her eyes smile - and watches the strange little wildtype as he practices the preening she has showed him and uses the push-off she showed him. An apt mind, if a slow one. And Fletcher.. odd as she is, her mind is both apt and swift. So she makes note of this young Catchfly (as she has made note of countless other interesting youths over the seasons, and will make note of countless more in future seasons) and she watches as he leaves.
It would be nice to say that Fletcher will remember this encounter just as clearly as her new young admirer undoubtedly will. It would be nice to say that he has touched her in some deep and profound way, or that she will seek him out in the future. But when an individual persists for as long as Fletcher has, well.. such liberties are no longer enjoyed. Days blend into moons that blend into seasons, and Catchfly has become one of a never-ending list of interesting fledglings. But she will remember him, and his name, because she remembers the name of every individual she encounters.
And she is always watching.
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