Private Tales Carrion Comfort

[Fífl]

The Northern Coast of the Eretejva Tundra

Uratash smiled upon her.

Or so some fanatic might have screeched while lopping off various body parts and launching them into the Köldgröf as if they were making the most haphazard, deluded soup (albeit with earnest fervour).

Fífl the Fleet was not of the opinion that she had crossed the frigid ocean on the back of the God of Storm's mercy, but rather his ignorance. Far above the miasma of grey storm clouds, she had soared on Kaldurhrafn wing, his eye blind as it swept across his seas on the hunt for raiding ships that had not paid his toll of blood. Their misfortune was her gain, her passage unseen and undisturbed by razor winds and unflinching waters.

Perhaps they should have learned to fly if they did not wish to drown.

Even still, as safe as the journey might have been, it did not make it any less taxing; the effortless nature of flight was a lie told to those who bore witness, for she was no natural beast, her second skin a gift bestowed upon her by Spotta's fickle nature on a leap of faith.

The barely summer-thawed sands of the Nordenfiir coast crested on her vision in between the gaps of the clouds, signifying that rest would soon be her prize for crossing the gap between civilisations. However, it was not rest that Fífl desired most of all. It was food. The act of changing her shape and sustaining it for long periods didn't just hang heavy on the mind but strangled the stomach.

However, unlike Uratash, Spotta did smile upon her.

From beady, black corvid eyes spotted the familiar shape of death upon the tundra beach, a lone body, otherwise known as the perfect snack for a peckish beak, carrion by any other name. She swooped, wings fluttering to a stop before the delightfully fresh feast, by sight not bloated nor rotted by the sea. The Nordwiir were not averse to cannibalism, a resource-starved people valuing survival by any means necessary. Still, Fífl always found it more palatable to feast upon mortal flesh in the form of the frost raven.

Plus, a smaller stomach took less to fill.

She hopped up and onto the chest of the tremendous corpse and, without a single moment of care or consideration, pecked at his cheek to strip the flesh from his face.

 

[Blackburn Fane]

Fífl

Dying was impossible, but getting killed was easy.

Most of these days Blackburn Fane did not even remember how it happened. Everything would go swimmingly (yes), he'd build up a reputation, he'd find a new life. Then he woke up with the taste of cotton in his mouth and his body aching from disuse. A new sky obscured by dirt haphazardly shoveled over him. He had long since stopped trying to figure out how he always ended up in one grave or the other.

Even when his body was entirely annihilated, it would always come back again.

In a filthy grave. It was undignified, but Fane was used to these moments that lacked of grace.

Even now, as his heart began to beat once more, he was visited by indignity. As something, a beak, began to peck at his cheek. Tearing out a piece of meat. It burned. The pain lacing through his body, but as always it dulled quick.

His body was used to pain. It had stopped bitching and moaning at him about it a long time ago. Now it just felt like fire for a brief moment before letting go.

Another peck and he growled- his hand twapping at the bird to shoo it off.

"Enough, I am not dead yet, you shit bird."

 

[Fífl]

She had felt it, the thrum of life beneath his chest like worms beneath the dirt. Gluttony allowed her to disregard it; the sensations felt through raven's feet chalked up to decomposition's dance.

As it turned out, her stomach had made an incorrect assumption. Not the first time, nor would it be the last.

"Gwah!" Fífl croaked with cheek meat caught in her beak, wings flapping in a flurry of flight as she was shooed off the man's chest with a dismissive rumble of foreign words.

How dare he! How dare he not have the good graces to remain in the care of Endirinn? The Nordwiir was sure that he had been afflicted by the stillness of death. Yes, she was greedy and, in pursuit of the feast, hadn't diagnosed the man's demise, but animal senses did not lie. He had perished.

Her annoyance mingled with curiosity, the shifter remaining next to his head, feet hopping on the sand, neck twisted to inspect the man who played dead.

"GWAH!" Fífl squawked indignantly as if demanding an explanation for her spoiled banquet.

 

[Blackburn Fane]

Fífl

Did the raven sound annoyed? It was probably nothing.

He groaned as his hand settled on his forehead like a maiden in distress. Because while Fane might not be a fair maiden, he certainly felt in distress.

"Where the fuck am I anyway..." Muttered there as he glanced up to the sky, to his left, to his right and realized the bird was still there. "Probably not every day one of your feeding prizes just wakes up again, huh?" He reached out to pat it on the head.

"I am a tough one to put down permanently. Not your fault, little shit bird."

Then trying to stand up.

At least he had most of his clothes on still. Sometimes he was entirely in the nude and that was just another level of indignity.

 

[Fífl]

The more she observed, the more curiosity overpowered irritation.

It was the reason Fífl savoured her jaunts to the land of bears; there was always something new and exciting to observe, steal or eat, and while the latter was somewhat out of the question, the other two remained on the table.

Home was dull by comparison, a cannibalising world of scarcity, where violence reigned, ensuring their perpetual stagnation. Barbarous and backwards. She detested the very thought that she might have held something in common with her fellow Wiir and their never-sated blades. No, she was different, better, more enlightened and broad of mind.

The man petted her, a fresh curiosity as more rumbled words emerged that remained just as strange. The frost raven's head bowed under the weight, but she remained still, watching and deliberating. "Gwah," she had replied to his touch, less irritated and almost thoughtful (if a bird could be considered such).

His tongue was beyond her, not her people's guttural menace nor their ursine cousins' strong cadence.

He was new, he was exciting.

With no further thought, she changed, a sudden flurry of black feathers obscuring a body and limbs that stretched and shed their night plumage to reveal the woman's true form in pale moonlight flesh. Shed feathers disintegrated to the ether, leaving behind a tall, shapely and unabashedly nude Nordwiir peering down at him with dark eyes, the only remnants of raven within her found in the sight of black hair.

<"Strange creature,"> Fífl remarked in her native tongue, tilting her head at him with a curious gaze. <"What reason does your heart have to beat again?">

 

[Blackburn Fane]

Fífl

The bird was kinda cute. It received another little pat on the head after its gwah and then Fane managed to climb to his arse. This was not the same as climbing back to his feet. But as a man familiar with these sort of situations Fane understood standing up after dying was a process.

You needed to make sure every bit of you was still in place or otherwise shove it in place.

Everything seemed to be in order.

He began to climb to his feet. The bird changed into a woman. Sure, why not, that was just the way these things went, right? You died. You woke up. A bird tries to eat you. The bird then becomes- wait, what?? Fane's eyes widened in shock and he promptly fell back on his arse when the BIRD became a WOMAN.

"What the fuck?" He uttered in shock as he looked her up and down. Later on he'd pat his own back for the luck involved. But right now Fane was too shocked to realize the pretty picture.

"Wait, you can talk too?" And the language sounded familiar to him. <"Strange creature..."> He echoed there in her native tongue but with a broken ancient accent.

<"Reason... heart... beat..."> Then Fane's expression brightened. <"Oh, you speak the Old Tongue! Bit of a weird cadence, but I get it.."> Standing up to his feet because frankly looking up at the woman made him feel all kinds of things that were entirely inappropriate.

<"You just turned from a bird into a woman and you are shocked by me waking up from sleep? Really?"> Pretending like he wasn't immortal. It wasn't exactly the best way to start a conversation after all.

Another relevant point: he might be speaking it fluent, but he spoke her language as if he was an ancient grandpa reading out of an even more ancient tome.

 

[Fífl]

The Nordwiir observed him with the same avian curiosity as before while he toyed with her language in his mouth like wriggling prey. He chewed on it in repetition, his accent strange and syllables stranger.

Fífl had naturally assumed that their verbal communication would be at an end here and that their only way forward would be through the act of facial expressions, hand gestures and, quite possibly, interpretive dance.

But no, another twist in the tale.

The man spoke and spoke in her mother tongue, causing the shapeshifter's eyebrows to arch, her surprise left open for him to witness.

<"The 'Old Tongue'...?"> Fífl had initially quizzically remarked, her head moving backwards and tilting slightly upwards now that he was standing. Tall for a Southerner. Not that it bothered her, given the fact she stepped uncomfortably close and prodded a single digit accusingly into his chest.

<"And was your heart also sleeping?">

 

[Blackburn Fane]

His head flicked down to the solitary digit poking into his chest.

It would be like prodding a wall or a particularly stubborn rock formation. There was no yield to it, just... existence, now that he was breathing once more.

"I prefer to think of it as a very firm sleep." Fane said with classical avoidance. "At least until a bird snatched a piece of my face and ate it." It would have helped his avoidance if his face didn't already seem better. The small strip of skin that Fífl snatched up in her break beginning to knit itself back together once more.

Instead here the strangeness was unfolding right in front of her.

"Tell me, raven-girl, where are we anyway? The North, I assume, since you speak a variation of the Old Tongue."

 

[Fífl]

She hummed dismissively, clearly not impressed by his insistence that he was having a sleep of any kind, but quickly lost interest as the accusations turned towards her choice of snack. <"What do you expect, sleeping out in the open?"> Highly underrated, the cheek meat.

And yet, his cheek was already healing. How curious.

With little disregard for his personal space, her hands reached for his face, fingers intertwining with his beard and gripping the man's jaw as she gently turned his head to the side to scrutinise his fast-mending flesh with avian appraisal. The greedy corvid within her soul wondered if she could gorge herself on him for mortal eternity, but the woman pushed it to the side.

<"We are on Bjarnareyja, the land of bears,"> Fífl informed him, eyes narrowing as she attempted to catch sight of healing meat. <"On the northern shores.">

As if the man couldn't be any more of a mystery, he did not even know where he had laid. How befuddling, how intriguing, how compelling!

<"You are peculiar, sleeping heart,"> the Nordwiir asked, turning his face back to look her in the eyes. <"Tell me who you are and what you are.">

 

[Blackburn Fane]

She was man(bird?)-handling him like she owned his flesh.

Fane supposed she really did think that was the case when she was tearing into him. It was difficult to put that aside. And he figured that since she had a piece of him inside of her now, that meant they were closer to one another than most people ought to be.

He led it be.

She couldn't hurt him in any way that mattered anyway. Even if Fífl killed him, he'd just wake up again, but maybe somewhere sunny.

"The land of bears, huh? So why are you a raven." He asked boldly since she was handling him so boldly. "I am Blackburn Fane." Said impassively and already summoning the fortitude to not have to answer a million more questions.

Some people knew of Blackburn Fane. The undying dead. Who could be killed, but could never die.

"I am just a man." Then he poked her in the nose himself. "And what are you? A bird or woman first?"

 

[Fífl]

<"Because I am merely visiting, Blackburn Fane,"> she answered honestly, her thumbs tapping rhythmically upon the sides of his face as the appraisal continued. Even his name was strange, falling from her lips through a heavy Wiir accent.

Before Fífl could express her disbelief that he was just anything, a large finger prodded her nose as the line of questioning continued to be reflected on her. Aside from the innate avian desire to nip his finger, his flippant touch was gratifying. The nature of her people was physical and best expressed through contact and, much to her chagrin, violence.

<"I am Nordwiir,"> the woman spoke, thumbs moving down to trace his jawline as if touch would help her decipher his many mysteries, <"and the shape of the Kaldurhrafn is my gift from Spotta.">

Her curiosity had not yet been fully sated, but more pressing desires were at hand.

<"You owe me a meal,"> Fífl the Fleet sharply demanded, her right hand lifting from his face to press upon his chest, over where his now-beating heart lay. <"Since your sleeping heart stole my last one away.">

 

[Blackburn Fane]

Fífl

Weren't they all merely visiting? Some longer, some shorter... but always in a state of in-between.

Nordwiir.

"You seem less aggressive than the average Nordwiir I have encountered." He said with interest and uncaring if it sounded prejudiced. "Then again, I did encounter you trying to eat me, so maybe you are just aggressive as your brethren."

Again poking her nose and then her cheek.

Yes, she seemed real enough.

"Oh, do I, little bird?" Calmly there as he grabbed her by the chin and forced her to tilt her head up, meeting her gaze with his own.

"And what sort of meal does a little songbird need?"

 

[Fífl]

She hummed, a certain smugness pulling at the corner of her lips as he (correctly) assessed that she was unlike her kin, a fact that Fífl happily crowed to the solitude of Eyjarnar. The woman soared above the violent nature woven into Wiir flesh, evading the curse of hatred that lingered in paranoid eyes that only knew how to fight rather than talk.

Of course, then the man rescinded his assessment, and with it vanished all traces of smug satisfaction, leaving only irritation, then poked and prodded at by blundering digits.

<"I am no such thing,"> she snapped back, <"You were dead, and the living must eat.">

When Blackburn Fane grabbed her chin, she became acutely aware of the underlying current of danger. The fragility of her bones, the raven's boons accompanied by its burdens. His form was imposing, even if his demeanour remained still. Yet, just as mindless violence evaded Fífl the Fleet, so often did wisdom or the ability to hold her tongue.

<"You do,"> she returned with defiance, the one hand still upon his face tapping impatiently on his cheek, <"and you will show me the meal that satisfies just a man.">

 

[Blackburn Fane]

Fífl

He was skeptical about her retort. She was entirely too comfortable with the idea of devouring carrion meat. Half her time was spent as a human, which meant the other half was spent as a bird of prey. That was not someone you could rely on. At the same time it didn’t frighten Fane either. He had been around for a long time and this was the least concerning thing he had encountered lately.

Fane grabbed her by the wrist. His hand dwarfing hers and underlining the sheer difference in size and scale of threat.

“Fine. One meal.” Said with a curt note that allowed little in terms of argument. “But then we are square, songbird.”

Finally letting go of her hand and pushing her back a little.

“Go up into the sky, little one. Find living prey. Big and with a lot of meat on it. I will kill it for both of us and then we will eat like Men do.” His eyes looked her up and down again. “Lest you forget what it means to be Man.”

 

[Fífl]

Just when she had thought that she had negotiated herself a free meal, he changed the terms, requiring effort on her part to source the meal first.

Why? Had she not already found her meal before it was so rudely awoken from the depths of Spotta knows where? Who was he to demand that of her? Blackburn Pain in the Bottom. Her expression soured as those thoughts came to the forefront of her mind, her distaste for him writ large upon her porcelain face.

<"I do not think so,"> she replied firmly, folding her arms across her chest as she closed the space again, unbothered by the thought of those enormous hands doing harm. <"I do not fly at the behest of men who would have made better meals.>

She tilted her head to the side, brows furrowing as her indignant nature shone through.

<"Perhaps it would be better if you lay back down and turn the other cheek, seeing as it's done you little harm.">

 

[Blackburn Fane]

Fífl

She closed the space but neglected to touch him again.

That was the only reason he didn't grab her by the chin again.

"I am not one to turn the other cheek." Fane muttered as he raised his hands, palms to her. "These hands are made for violence."

It wasn't meant as a threat. More of an explanation why he didn't believe in a creed like that, but it could be seen as one regardless.

"But if you aren't tracking our meal, then I guess there won't be a meal. Because I am not tracking shit in a land I know nothing about." The last thing he wanted was to become the meal of something larger than a small cute bird.

Land of the bears indeed.

So he turned away from her and began to walk away.