A seaside town is plagued by crows. Dark birds nesting in the roofs by the hundreds, cawing at all hours of the night, and ominously following the residents. They call Wraithvine {who might bring someone along if ze feels like it} to save them. For surely this is an omen of impending doom. --Deathhead419
Murder was afoot in Shorevale. It was also a-wing, nesting, and being a general pest, because crows had decided to infest the entire little fishing village. They had forced out the usual plague of seagulls, but the downside was that they had taken over the seagull's general tasks of low-grade menace.
This was a job for a hero. Or at least someone who could unriddle such unusual occurrences.
Enter Wraithvine, and a diminutive companion of uncertain heritage clinging to the name of Scruff.
Wraithvine's comb had untangled the matted fur and hair that had given Scruff his name, and other charities had given him decent clothes. A lot more work would have to be done to cure his general distrust of society at large, people in general, and the local Watch in particular. Most who learned this fact soon judged Wraithvine to possess extraordinary patience and benevolence in order to gain his trust.
They were right, of course. And it went a great deal towards why Scruff spent a majority of his time impersonating a strange growth attached to one of Wraithvine's legs. It certainly helped to have access to a pocket dimension filled with little treats. Scruff's claws were less likely to dig in when the little creature was busy chewing something, or holding onto something that needed bites taken out of it to devour.
Today, it was a particularly chewy bacon-and-carrot bagel. Better to keep his claws and mouth occupied whilst also getting some vital nutrition into him.
Wraithvine kept one hand free to gently rub or pet Sruff's head or shoulder. A calm and reassuring hand in the face of so very many uniforms with weapons at their sides. Though the Halfbred lad's attention was handily diverted by at least one crow per person. Indoors or outdoors, everyone had to speak above the incessant caw-ing.
"They came less than a week ago," shouted the mayor, their official hat bedecked with three noisy birds, as well as one per shoulder. "They drove out the seagulls and every other city bird, and they made utter nuisances of themselves."
"I would too if no-one listened to me," said Scruff. "Can't you hear? Their friend's in trouble."
Wraithvine, startled by this loquatious an outburst said, "You can understand the birds?"
"You can't?" said Scruff. Which was a more normal number of words from the boy.
The birds had fallen silent, all examining Scruff with each of their eyes. It was more disturbing than the noise.
"No," said Wraithvine. "We can't. What are the crows saying?"
"Their friend fell into a crack in the ground, up near the spike rocks where even goats fall. There's rocks and..." Scruff broke off to make eerily accurate crow noises. To which the crow responded. "They can feed them, but they can't get them out. Their friend needs help."
It became a parade, all following Scruff leading the way. People eager to see the crows on their way came with ladders, with ropes with crowbars. With medicines, blankets, and a stretcher big enough for a Troll. Just in case.
The crows had not said what species their friend was. Just that they were a "twoleg grounder" which could mean anything from Gnome to Giant. They hoped the crows' friend wasn't a Giant.
They were a Wudzgaad. Sleek and black like the crows, with mountain goat horns and great long whiskers that were currently frayed and tangled. They were in a lot of pain, intermittently conscious, and using most of their magic to fight off infection.
The crows had extracted any bothersome pebbles. It was all they could do for their friend besides feeding them whatever they could carry. A system of ropes, pulleys, and braces constructed on the spot soon disloged the troublesome boulder. A mathching one hauled out the ill-fated Wudzgaad on the gigantic stretcher. Where the healers saw to their hurts.
The crows were silent during the march back to the town, where the city hall turned into a one-patient hospital, owing to it having a large enough space. A night of proper sleep and the correct use of splints, balm, and bandages saw the forest creature at least sitting up and responding coherently.
"Cooked food," the Wudzgaad sighed. "I didn't know I missed it, six days ago." They inhaled the steam from their latest bowl of chicken soup. "Now I fully appreciate this little slice of civilisation." They supped gently, savouring the flavour. "Who heard my little friends?"
Scruff nervously stepped forward, but not as nervously as he did around anyone else but Wraithvine. "They can't help it," he said. "They don't know how to listen."
It became clear, looking at the two of them, that Scruff was half Wudzgaad. The other half was still a mystery. The rescued looked upon their rescuer as if beholding a true miracle. "Who left you astray, little treasure?"
"I don't remember them, but Wraithvine took me up and did the caring."
Wraithvine nodded. "I'll stay while you recover," ze said. "And I'll leave it to Scruff to decide where he wanders after that."
"You should both be rewarded," sighed the injured Wudzgaad, slipping back into a healing torpor. "I... will think of something."
Whatever it might be, the gifts of the Faekindred tended to answer a great need at an interesting time.
[Photo by OSPAN ALI on Unsplash]
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