Paying My Respects

Never have I touched a bird before, though I imagine this is what contact with a creature such as that should feel like. Isuma’s beak is as cold and unyielding to touch as the tusk of an old male Elephant Beetle, yet she handles my warm, sensitive fingertips with staggering gentleness. The feeling of her feathered skull beneath my palm too, is incredible as she asks silently, persistently for affection, and those tapering nail tips of mine bury willingly beneath the fur at her presented ears. This neck moves to swivel as Jigano speaks in turn and my narrow shoulders oblige, turning a little to comfortably accommodate the realignment. My pale eyes touch upon the sweet, young Gryphon first, tenderness softening the lines of hesitation beside my eyes, before sliding beyond her to find the sharp, chiselled outline of the human. He isn’t nearly as ignorant as I’d initially assumed, and the level of understanding he demonstrates for the plight of my kin, feels refreshing. A tiny seed of trust, maybe, has been planted within me; I’m aware of its presence and for now let it linger. Arduinna’s, is a name I know of through rumour alone; her reputation, appearance and clandestine nature. The Wildwood folk, of which I am one, whisper sometimes of her as the wild Fae, an enigma, though mention of her movement by Jigano, against Delah’s defences brings me to flinch: why would she encourage, nay, assist, the Outlanders invasion? My thoughts consider the new facts behind an unchanged expression. These are confusing times… My disheartenment is swept aside for now. “You may,” I answer Jigano’s question, with much reserve still blaring in my mind. I try to convince myself further that this exchange between he and I, has been an innocent one and the corners of my mouth further lift, responding to the compliment just given. A steady silence befalls thereafter, for I’m not immediately sure what else would be appropriate to say - in the back of my mind lingers always the reality that I need to travel home. Thinking of the snowy-coated fox, now warm in their den, my gaze drifts hither to the Gryphon which had followed and I utter: “Wildwood’s night life can be unfriendly. Please be safe.” My hand returns from  its therapeutic caress and presses (with the other), to shove me forward off my perch. Just below my skin looms the hope that we will meet again one day, but all I offer to the curious not-Fae before I retire, is a thoughtful nod; fingers draw the hood again forward of my forehead and shade engulfs my young face. Before I turn to leave, my free hand (the one not clasped once more around my stick), swoops slowly towards Isuma, as though to offer her a friendly, parting stroke.