Calan
"You can trust us!" Calan adds quickly, because that seems like the sort of thing trustworthy people say. He snatches up the second box and hurries after Carlo with the brisk, important walk of a boy who has absolutely been hired to carry this exact thing to this exact place, his chin lifted just enough to suggest efficiency rather than escape.
At the side of the not-Fern house, he sets his crate down where instructed and gives Carlo a solemn nod, taking the matter of not stepping on his head with all the seriousness it deserves. "Sorry," he whispers, with only a little regret and far more explanation than apology. "It just looked really steppable."
Once the coast is declared clear, Calan puts one foot into the cradle of Carlo’s hands and braces himself, already lifting his eyes toward the windowsill with the firm belief that this is where the plan becomes impressive. Unfortunately, a nearby Hel has opinions about their timing, apparently, and it drops onto his hair in a sudden violent flutter of wings and talons, sharp little feet scrabbling against his head while its beak jabs at his shirt where, admittedly, something food-related probably still lives.
"Hey—no, that’s mine—" Calan hisses, which is not strictly true if the bird is after crumbs, and not the shirt itself. His hands fly up to swat at the Hel just as the boost comes, and the careful climb immediately becomes a much less careful launch, his knee knocking the wall with a dull thump before the rest of him follows with an "oof" that punches out of him on impact.
For one very busy second Calan is mostly elbows, crate, twin, bird, and wall, but his fingers catch the windowsill anyway and clamp down hard. The Hel squawks directly above him, wings beating against his hair while Calan hangs there with his feet searching for anything useful beneath him. "This is probably still fine," he insists in a strained whisper, because changing the definition of success is an important part of attained success.
At the side of the not-Fern house, he sets his crate down where instructed and gives Carlo a solemn nod, taking the matter of not stepping on his head with all the seriousness it deserves. "Sorry," he whispers, with only a little regret and far more explanation than apology. "It just looked really steppable."
Once the coast is declared clear, Calan puts one foot into the cradle of Carlo’s hands and braces himself, already lifting his eyes toward the windowsill with the firm belief that this is where the plan becomes impressive. Unfortunately, a nearby Hel has opinions about their timing, apparently, and it drops onto his hair in a sudden violent flutter of wings and talons, sharp little feet scrabbling against his head while its beak jabs at his shirt where, admittedly, something food-related probably still lives.
"Hey—no, that’s mine—" Calan hisses, which is not strictly true if the bird is after crumbs, and not the shirt itself. His hands fly up to swat at the Hel just as the boost comes, and the careful climb immediately becomes a much less careful launch, his knee knocking the wall with a dull thump before the rest of him follows with an "oof" that punches out of him on impact.
For one very busy second Calan is mostly elbows, crate, twin, bird, and wall, but his fingers catch the windowsill anyway and clamp down hard. The Hel squawks directly above him, wings beating against his hair while Calan hangs there with his feet searching for anything useful beneath him. "This is probably still fine," he insists in a strained whisper, because changing the definition of success is an important part of attained success.
I've never been one to half-ass shenanigans.
