[SE] The unkindness of ravens

A surprised croak leaves Wessex feeling quite satisfied - mischief building into a stifled, swallowed snicker. There’s the feeling of teenage misbehavior somewhere inside her - or fun, as she used to call it. There’s really only so much one can do from within a cloak; throwing isn’t normally one of them. Attacks must be stealthy, furtive, and patient. Now that the bird has come to investigate, Wessex goes quite still. No breathe to fog the air, no tremor to indicate some snag in reality, nothing other than, perhaps, her voice pitched an octave higher. It wavers, mimics - is human, but perhaps not entirely? “Hello?” she repeats back to the bird, giving it a clue to her general placement as she wavers between wanting to be found and not. WESSEX She whispered back, I am the storm