#dramatic birb

[dramaticbirb]

INTERMISSION:

rapid screaming from inside the oak tree. Nobody appears to be in charge here.

[dramaticbirb]

Built like a songbird. Emotionally committed to being a tiny roadside menace.

No talons? Fine. Use thorns. Use barbed wire. Turn the landscape into meal prep with consequences.

He’s not being dramatic. He’s being efficient.

Unfortunately, the evidence is now everyone’s problem.

[dramaticbirb]

First: Elder Bittern. Tall. Still. Built like a warning sign. He does not blink. This is fine. This is probably fine.

Then: Elder Flicker. Sideways. Twitching. Eyes like static. He tilts his head. Never good.

Elder Crow steps forward. Measured. Knowing. He lifts one foot. It probably means something. Or nothing. Cool. Cool. Cool.

Elder Owl descends. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t breathe. The air tightens. Oh no.

They say nothing. The grackle tries to speak. What comes out is a startled, echoing SQUACK. He steps forward anyway. Not because he is chosen. Not because he is ready. But because— he already made eye contact, and fate is extremely bad at refunds.

[dramaticbirb]

Episode 1: The Grackle Arrives

In the age-old chronicles of birbs who land on important objects, none stood prouder than Dramatic Birb.

He did not seek legend. Legend, unfortunately, sought him.

Now he’s got responsibilities.

(He’s not ready. The council will make sure of that.)

[dramaticbirb]

The Task

A four-part cautionary tale about yelling at trees, unintended consequences, and glowing holes.

The Glow Begins

He squawked at a tree. It squawked back. Glowed a little. Cracked open.

The Council Notices

Episode 3.2 Bittern stiffens. He does not blink. Built like a warning sign. This is fine.

Owl narrows his eyes. Blame already loading.

Flicker looks away. Emotionally busy.

Crow watches. He gets it.

 The Grackle's Task

No one says anything. Which is the worst-case scenario.

The tree is still glowing. The council is still staring. There is now…a path.So he climbs. Because apparently that’s what he does now.

The Descent

He crosses the threshold. The air bends. The glow shifts.

It is beautiful. It is weird. It is probably fine. Yes. And. Nothing.

[bettsplendens]

So I did some thinking about how Alabaster’s full transformation would look.

The first thing that happens is the tiny bit of color in his skin completely drains out. His face starts changing next, but it doesn’t start at the nose like people tend to think- his teeth change first, going from oddly sharp to suddenly very long, and they start to blend together as his lower jaw shifts forwards and his entire skull lengthens into something more avian. The skin that used to be his face almost seems to be peeling back, sliding back up along his skull to melt into his hairline, and individual hairs start to melt into feathers. His eyes simply vanish, their sockets suddenly pits of unnatural darkness, and a long tongue uncurls as his beak opens wide. His shoulders shift backwards slightly, his arms lengthen, his hands elongate into talons for an instant before the nails vanish, and the arms of his suit abruptly start to sprout feathers. His entire body seems to ruffle slightly, the texture of his suit going from normal-seeming fabric to something that doesn’t seem to quite hold together as well, and his feet melt slightly before re-fusing into something very odd-looking; he almost looks like he’s ripped through a pair of shoes as the thick black skin collects around his ankle, and his heels start to look more like claws. 

And he can stop there, but if he doesn’t intend to, you’d never know it. His back arches, feathers suddenly fluffing up all along his spine, and then he stretches and arms rapidly turning into wings spread wide as his spine elongates and his chest deepens and his fingers melt together and vanish under the feathers bursting free of what used to be his sleeves. His neck arches, his tail sprouts, and his stomach hollows out all at the same time, and then the sudden darkness in his gut vanishes under inky black feathers that still show a few patches of white ribcage. His arms-turned-wings stretch wider, lengthening and widening and rustling slightly as feathers settle into place, and the black around his ankles flows down and collects into thick scales and obsidian-black claw coating. His entire frame seems to expand just a bit more, a myriad of clicks and pops making themselves heard, and it would seem painful if it didn’t look so much like he’d just stretched and broken free of something. And he loves to do this in midair, so that’s when he tucks everything in, neatly flips over, and spreads wings as black as midnight that catch him just before he hits the ground. And he’s not silent as he flies, ragged black wings and shaggy plumage make sounds easily audible to even humans, but it doesn’t really matter. The shadow of death is no less intimidating for the harsh, whispery shouts of its coming.