Witch.

It was a witchy house: the low-slung roof; that quiet gray paint; those squinting, shuttered windows; and the empty porch rocker that rocked, rocked, rocked day and night. Woods silent save for the dreaded rock, rock, rocking, the wood old and worn and smooth at the bottom where one too many people had taken a seat. There was an irritating chip in its swooping frame, one that clattered against the porch and caused the entire thing to lurch backwards once more, never quite achieving that full range of motion that a nice chair ought to have.

Crym wouldn’t sit in that thing. Certainly not.

There were rats. She could hear them, the skittering of tiny nails within the lonesome house, the squeaking and twitching of whiskers. Could see the droppings through the shingles of a roof caving in with bright, purple eyes. There were scraps of roofing strewn in crippled yellow grass, like the structure had shook itself loose and everything too weak to hold on was discarded. The lawn got greener the further it ran for the treeline, as though the building was responsible for the decay that ringed it.

The house was old and worn but stood strong despite the elements, thoroughly abandoned as the day crept on. The kenku oft lost track of time this way, observing surroundings, taking everything in. Observation was a skill she’d perfected time and again, and it did no harm to practice, now, with it being a trait she stubbornly refused to abandon, a trait nobody could steal from her.

Night fell. The trees that shrouded the little homestead were thick and dense, did well to explain why not a single other traveler appeared to have touched the place in years. All life abandoned save for the vermin, noises that made her cavernous stomach twist into knots, hungry, angry knots only undone by blood and meat in her gullet.

Still, Crym remained hidden. Slunk through tangles of thick branches, contorted herself through the canopy, simply watching, waiting. Observing. A gargoyle guarding a castle. She suspected her robes had a few holes, and her feathers were rough and dirty from leaf litter and bark and nasty, nasty insects that crawled through the flora. She was not yet desperate enough to eat those, no. But she could feel that hunger creep in like a blade in the belly, and she thought maybe, perhaps, she was getting desperate enough to squeeze inside and devour the dirty, disease-filled rodents that made their homes within rotting walls and waning paint.

There was a bird, now, so inconspicuous Crym might not have seen it were her vision not so sharp. Of course, this was an inevitability, nothing escaping her harsh gaze, eyes that could see through charades and facades, knew lies and truths with one look.

It was a raven. Perched on the dilapidated chimney, rock that had tragically collapsed in on itself and blocked any potential smoke from escape. The feathers there were shiny and mesmerizing in the moonlight, had a glossy sheen that hers so tragically lacked. Her gaze narrowed at that. How unfortunate that a mere thing as small and pathetic as a raven would think to show her up, chest a-puff, cawing with wretched pride atop the weak little house.

Crym peered out at it through the foliage, slithering through the branches before pulling her legs beneath her on a particularly sturdy limb. If the raven knew she was there, it didn’t pay her much heed, tail flippant and feathers fluttering as it hopped to another crumbling stone. Her own fingers twitched, scritch-scratching at the ancient bark, gold-tipped talons flexing into the aging wood like a knife in butter. The alloy glinted savagely under the stars, far more striking than the bird’s coat could ever be. She was struck with an amusing urge to kill it.

The thing may have noticed her, then, because it shook out its wings and cocked its head in an examinatory manner. Its eyes were beedy and black and lacked the intelligence and beauty that hers did. There was no need for it to mock her in this way. Crym didn’t need to bear the bird’s scrutiny. 

It let out a loud caw, a cackle; a howling scrap of laughter that echoed around the abandoned property. As though it owned the place and she was nothing more than a scorned trespasser left to watch the landscape die. Crym blinked.

She could have done better.

Crym lunged, leapt from her perch and descended on the raven before it had time to flap its wings, let alone acknowledge her attack. Silent and deadly and calculated, without a single, ugly sound. Her form but a mere silhouette only seen against the stark white of the moon. Talons sprang open, outstretched razors that reflected horrifically in the bird’s tiny black eyes. Crym’s own a bright, violent purple. And in a billowing of her robes and a flurry of feathers, she sank her claws into its feeble little body as it let loose a shrill cackle.

But she had miscalculated; for the house lacked integrity, no doubt chewed through by the elements. No sooner had she landed against the chimney when the roof gave way completely, and though Crym opened her mouth in a silent scream, there was no noise to be made. Only the shuddering of the building and the rattling of shingles and bricks as they fell to the dirty floor below, alongside the kenku, who clawed desperately for a foothold. She hit rocky terrain with a thud, her prize thrown from her talons as the wind was knocked forcefully out of her. There was the shrieking of mice as rubble rained from the sky, showered her already battered frame, and Crym curled into a ball on the floor as she waited for the assault to still.

There came to be the lone hissing and slithering of debris waterfalling down wood, spilling out into intricate deltas along the floor. And soon that, too, stopped. The frantic squeaking of vermin failed to cease, but the house remained stubborn, and it wavered no further from her careless disturbance.

Crym cracked a single eye open, a sliver to examine the space. She had collapsed wretchedly on top of the chimney’s remains, suspected that those dark streaks through the brick were rivulets of her own blood, lacerations made on jagged edges where she’d come to halt. Her vestments were in ruin, covered in chalky dust and full of rips. Her feathers ruffled and torn, body aching, muscles beaten and skin cut. Though the gold on her hands remained pristine, there was little else that remained of her.

Save for her meal. Crym got to her feet slowly, spine protesting as her bruised vertebrae worked to get her upright. She adjusted the clerical collar at her neck, made sure everything was in place and her necklace had not flown askew. There was little time to preen, stomach seizing akin to the house, and she searched hungrily for the raven’s bastard corpse.

It didn’t take long. Though covered in rubble like everything else, Crym merely plucked it from the wreckage and shook out the carcass. Brushed it as smooth and clean as she could, its blood slick on her palms. She examined it for a moment. Her entire body hurt with the fury of a thousand gods, thirst and hunger and pain all twisting agonizingly in her mind. Obviously she was not thinking clearly.

No matter.

She pecked the raven’s breast, seized hold with her beak and tore the flesh clean from bone. Its guts fell out, entrails hanging in tatters as blood speckled the floor, mingled with hers, mingled with the rodents that had perished in the carnage.

Crym began to eat. Her stomach lept to attention, roared with the need for more, and she had soon torn to shreds the creature that had dared to taunt her. She worked to nibble the bones clean, lapping up scraps like a filthy mutt and hunched over a pathetic kill. Yet, it had ebbed the knife in her gut, an itch so fierce she had picked it till it bled. The bloodthirst shrank back and curled up on her lap, a manageable thing to keep on a leash once more until it got the better of her again.

She examined the raven’s little skull, now free of anything it had been minutes prior. Frail, easy to break, nothing to sneeze at.

Completely and utterly mute.

Crym knotted it to her vestments, through its eye sockets, and vanished out the window.