#So Miserable Without You-It's Like Having You Here|Cathal MacLugh

[brooklynislandgirl]

Would you believe….

Ancient Seat The rock has been a habitation for men for thousands of years. Before the coming of the First men it seems likely that the children of the forest and giants made their homes in its caverns. Yeah, George.  I know. I heard you the first fifteen times. But what you make in your fantasy isn’t the myth. Or the majesty. You  want prophecy? How ‘bout I give you one. Fingal’s Cavern that gave him respite from the sea. The voices of the old still whisper him advice. A throne to be reclaimed when he is king again. Scion of the Sun. Brightest when the Shadow falls.

…..Caw,  in tones of ardent affection.

Wings and Things.

[brooklynislandgirl]

Meme: QUOTHE

The Name Game || Accepting

Q: Do they have a good luck charm they often have with them? Quothe keeps a plethora of minor talens and major fetishes laying about her secret bolt-holes scattered throughout the world and in the Umbra, the map of which she’s etched into the back of her consciousness. These treasures and tokens are of immense value to all the changing breeds and sometimes she uses them to make bargains or to bribe spirits or particularly cranky shifters. She acquires them in similar fashion, often as payment for services rendered. Each of them have various powers and boons but oddly enough the little Corax has none that specifically grant her luck.  That being said, she does carry a singular item with her in all of her forms, having gone so far as to have undergone the Rite of Talisman Dedication with it so that no matter which of her three skins she wears it’s with her and cannot be stolen or lost. It isn’t lucky, per se, and isn’t bound to any spirit. It’s a lock of black human hair kept bounded in its braid by a bronze fastener and dates back to a few thousand years ago.

U: Would they rather be single or in a relationship? This is a tricky question for Quothe. And the answer is simply, both. She was originally born a raven in the Ural Mountains of Siberia and might have led an uneventful life had she not been bound to a spirit egg by a ~to this day~ unknown homid Corax. Her first change occurred while she was still a young adolescent raven, making her a part of Gaia’s gossip network. And she certainly enjoyed the life for many years, until she was felled by minions of the Wyrm. And that should have been the end of the story. Except it wasn’t. It seemed the Universe had other plans for the plucky little spy and of an evening of dark treachery caught her spirit flying free in Pangaea, and taking the parts the heart of a dead boy, fashioned her anew. No one let Quothe in on the plan, except that she was given a name ~Anatalya~ which meant “break of dawn”. Then the Goddess bestowed her on the also renewed boy whose heart now wore black feathers and an insatiable curiosity.

It is said that Anatalya’s first human word was his name, “Cathal.”

And of course, that word spelt doom for our heroes. Immortal though the messenger is, she has pined after the Celt for aeons, in service to the Universe, and Gaia, and his father, whom she knows as Helios.

She would rather be in a relationship with Cathal. And currently cannot, for reasons. And while she’s had the occasional fling now and again over the years, none of it has ever been serious and none of it has been lasting. And the more the years wear on, the less likely she’s inclined to be with anyone else.

O: How much have they changed in the past five years? 

Well, for one, Cathal’s old flame has popped up, causing a lot of relationship drama that hasn’t exactly been a picnic in the park. And he’s gotten himself in a bit of an issue with his half brother. Oh and you know there’s that whole part about Helios taking a dirt-nap at some point and.... And she’s still stuck wearing feathers when he’s around, but she’s hoping that curse will break soon enough.

   T: How quick are they to cry? 

“I am Russian. We practically invent stoicism, no matter what Greeks say.”

And the truth is no one has ever seen the Bird cry.

   H: Who texts/calls them the most? Corax don’t text like normal people do, that’s for sure. Most of their sparsely written language is scratched out by razor sharp claws in such a way that they can only be seen and read from an overhead view as one is flying by. In an absolute pinch, they might send an emergency text but for the most part they don’t have anything to do with Weaver technology. Too easy to corrupt, interrupt, fall into the wrong hands or claws or pedipalps. Whatever.

They also operate much like a splinter-cell. Anywhere between one to three will carry the message as far as they can, as territory and health will allow, always unerringly relayed to the next link in the chain. They aren’t in the business of keeping secrets, that’s the job of the cats.  No, their job is to spread information, or disinformation sometimes, couriers and scouts and inveterate gossips is what they were created to do.

But calling?

It could be a whisper. It could be a bellow. It can be a passing thought at three in the morning under a heavy layer of poitin, or other and more bitter substances. She always hears Cathal when he calls her, even if she doesn’t want to, even if she can’t immediately answer.

Funny how that works, eh?

Almost as hysterical as how when stuff really hits the fan. See, Corax aren’t meant to be combat mongers like their wolf relatives. Sure, they usually know where they are going and how to get there, that’s more or less part of the package that comes with the Spirit Egg after all. However, there are times when a Corax is too tired, too badly injured, to navigate themselves back home. 

Swallow’s Return is nothing less than an autopilot, bringing the Corax safely home even while the wereraven sleeps or heals.

And hers?  Always brings her back to him. E: Are they the happiest they’ve ever been?  

“What part of...I am Russian...did you miss? Have you never read Tolstoy? Dostoevsky? Turgenev? Pasternak?” What is happiness in the grand scheme of things, anyway?  There’s a subtle motion that gives the impression of lips twitching even if it’s impossible given that there’s no such part of a beak that could even come close to doing that.

Conscientiously, the bird drops the butt of the cigarette it has been smoking ~also with no discernible lips~ into the ashtray and cocks it’s dark feathered head.

“I must go. Grandmother is calling me.”