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Out, out and away, out of that goddamned house with all of its screaming children and underfoot housepets and responsibilities. Chores? He of all people was expected to do chores? Piss on that--and he'd said as much when someone had almost-but-not-quite ordered him to clean the kitchen, tucking tailfeathers and scooting out of the house just as soon as he was able. The house was too stifling, anyway, too many bodies in spite of the comfortable amount of space. He had taken to the skies on a path for Durem, allowing the stresses that came with living in a large household to float away on the same breezes that carried him through the air.

Tybalt was not alone in his afternoon flight, however. A pair of crows had been trailing him nearly the moment he'd lifted off, cawing and crowing as they made a game of bothering his wings and wheeling away when they flapped, only to repeat the process once Tybalt had finished glaring at them. They had gotten bold in recent passes, however, going so far as to peck at his feathers. Tybalt was all for a good bit of mischief, but this was at his expense and it was getting damned annoying. He sped up the next time the pair eased off and their raucous laughter rang through the air as they chased him, apparently believing they had him on the run--until Tybalt swept upwards, his body in a vertical position he used to land. With a startled screech and a muffled thump, a bird hit each wing and immediately falling downwards, definitely stunned. Tybalt nearly followed, as that position wasn't meant to be held in midair, but he quickly regained his air-legs and watched the birds land in a flurry of feathers mere yards before the pair of Eight and her charge. "Serves ye right, amateurs!" he called down to them.

Eyes on the ground meant his attention wasn't on his flight path, and he hadn't noticed that his altitude had dropped. He didn't notice the tree he was currently heading for, either.

Look out? Look out for what? Tybalt paused his face-making and insult-hurling long enough to follow the point of the woman's arm--too late, unfortunately, to do anything about his current flight path other than give a startled, "Oh, bloody hell!" and cover his head with his arms as best he could before disappearing into the tree's branches with a flurry of feathers, a shower of leaves, and a crash that sounded worse than it actually was.

The crows, having recovered themselves from their aerial tumble, picked themselves up, crowed a laugh at Tybalt, and flapped off unsteadily, having had quite enough of THIS nonsense.

Tybalt did not answer immediately, being too preoccupied with rescuing what feathers he could from the greedy branches of the tree while attempting to sort all of his various limbs into something that might help him escape not only the awkward tangle, but the entire embarassing situation. A few moments of cracking branches, muffled cursing, and leaf rustling would bring a flailing arm into view, followed closely by a wing-tip and a head, all adorning superficial scratches that didn't hurt nearly as much as the blow to his wounded dignity.

"I heard ye th' first time, y'wailin' brat!" Tybalt called down, in as good a mood as one might expect him to be--not very. "Mister Birdy Man, Mister Birdy Man," he sneered in mocking falsetto. "They're not makin' 'em very smart these days, eh? Pointin' out the obvious an' all? Does that mean your name's Miss Wench-in-Trainin'?"

"Aye, so're you," Tybalt muttered, slowly pushing and pulling himself out of the tree. "Funny lookin'." With a loud crack the branches confining Tybalt to the tree gave way just enough for him to slip free, and if he hadn't caught himself on a branch further down the trunk, he might very well have landed on his head.

Not that it mattered much. Tybalt dangled in midair for a moment, fingers trying and failing to find better purchase on the branch, before falling the last few yards to the ground with an almost startled "oof!" He looked terrible--his feathers were skewed, he was scratched all to hell, and there were just as many branches caught in Tybalt's wings as there were sprouting from his newest nemesis, the tree.

Funny looking, indeed.

"What're you laughin' at, midget?" Tybalt grumbled, slowly picking himself up. He spent a moment carefully flexing his wings, shoulders and arms, to check for injuries and sighed in relief when he found nothing that would require more than a band-aid and a few days' rest. Casting an irritated eye at the toddler, he flicked a wing--and some of the smaller twigs and branches that were caught in it--at her. "No, ye're funny lookin' cuz ye're funny lookin'."