Ritsuri

Pale plumage at his hatching marked him an ill omen; a harbinger of frailty and sickness. His fearful parents could not stand to raise him under the suspicious eyes of their fellows, nor cast him out when he had no hope of survival: thus they journeyed to the city. ‘Twas not a kind place to their kind, but there, perhaps, superstition would not demand his death.

An orphanage was easily found, the hatchling left at the door swaddled in blankets. Tucked alongside him: a note explaining his parents’ regrets, though they did not provide either their names or his.

This was not unusual at such an orphanage, though he, of course, still was; few kenku made their way into the city, after all. Nonetheless, the workers tended him as best they were able, and talked amongst themselves and their acquaintances of the odd bird-child under their care.

Whispers traveled, as they do, and a curious noble heard them. Her heirs grown, her husband dead; little occupied her time beyond her estates and her peers’ parties - and of late, she’d had little to offer in the way of intriguing gossip or entertainment at the latter. She thought on what she knew of kenku, and of this one’s uniqueness, and came to an idea.

She arrived at the orphanage and sent it into a flurry of activity. Rare for nobles to adopt a ward, but it did happen, and the workers rushed to present the children at their best: standing straight, smiling bright, freshly scrubbed (or preened, as the case may be). Half-fledged, he had not the extravagant looks she had imagined… but she saw potential, and so claimed him as her own, and named him Ritsuri: rarity.

As her ward, Ritsuri enjoyed a great many things: a room furnished in rich whites and golds, a garden overflowing with sweet-scented fruits and flowers, an array of tutors to teach him all he must know. Quickly, though, he grew to understand his true purpose: to be seen, and to perform.

Oh, how she loved to listen as his clever fingers picked out a complicated tune on a lute; how she clapped as he echoed a flawless mimicry of a just-heard song; how her lips curled in prideful glee as her peers marveled over her ward.

Oh, how she grew coldly furious if he missed a note; how the rap of her cane stung if he let a feather fall out of place; how his empty stomach clenched that night if he tripped over a dance step.

So he didn’t. He danced and smiled, played and sang, as the years passed and he grew ever more dazzling, ever more beautiful. When finally they fledged, the fantastic plumes of his tail shimmered in iridescent aqua, edged in gold, and though he kept his smile, he wondered how long he could stand living as a gilded pet in this gilded cage.

He began to test its bars, carefully at first, then recklessly. How simple a thing to know more than he should, when all considered him little more than a piece of art! How easy it was to stir a scandal, with nothing but a repetition of gossip overheard! How amusing to make these people of power dance for him, all a-frenzy with the secrets he spilled, the elegant lies he constructed!

Ritsuri reveled in his new diversions, perhaps too openly, but who would suspect the pretty preening pet in the corner? Unfortunately, the nobles were not all quite so foolish, and in due time untangled the web of words he’d spun to find him at the center. The pride of his patron was his salvation: unable to believe her ward could conceive of such mischief, she defended him long enough for him to gather what essentials he could carry and slip out in the night.

Admittedly, his own pride had not let him think overlong on being caught; with no plan, he simply sought to gain precious distance, and to rejoice in his newfound freedom. At last, he could dance for himself, sing for himself, play for himself - and perhaps out here find the true and ardent appreciation he dreamed of.