Oh, how many unpleasant thoughts crossed her this day! How many ideas to drop in unannounced, to claw her way back into her former protege's life, to remind her that she will NEVER be rid of her! None had come to fruition. No, again she elects to watch, ever torn between bitterness and odd SOFTNESS towards the girl. And so, a pitch-black crow with ruby eyes perches on Pyrrha's window, carrying a plain pouch that contains an elegant hair brooch in shape of a dove, decorated with turquoise.
The sound of crows was something that always alerted Pyrrha to her presence.
Whether it would be a flock of ravens or a single crow perched near her, she has often associated it as a sense that Tira was close by. Tira was watching. When life has, in a sense, slowed down for her, she tends to look around her surroundings once sheâs seen a crow or a raven out of habit.Â
Maybe it was futile of her to look for a sign of Tira now. After all of this time... she wouldnât be surprised if she had dropped watching over her completely out of anger. Out of disappointment. Out of bitterness. Or a combination of the three. Pyrrha would never completely know with her, but still... oddly enough the sight of a murder of crows brought her a odd sense of... safety. A curious word that she would associate with Tira, but the often foreign feeling of being watched over often brought about that feeling within her.
Today though, when she happens to look out her window, she notices a lone crow perched upon the windowsill. Black as night with eyes red as blood, Pyrrha gasps to herself once she realizes that this was no ordinary bird. Tira. This was one of Tiraâs birds. With haste, she slowly gets up and approaches the bird at her window, noticing a pouch it carried in its beak.
â...is this for me?â she asked, receiving no reply. At first, she reaches her hand -- left, still human -- out before stopping abruptly. Pyrrha looks down at her hand for a moment, then shakes her head. If she was to receive this gift, then sheâll do it right. Instead, she switches hands, the obsidian claws of her dominant hand opening up to the bird to drop the pouch upon her palm. Once it has done so, it simply stares at her as she opens the pouch to see itsâ contents.
âHow pretty...â she voices, tracing her finger along the shape of a dove in her admiration. There was an array of feelings that washed over Pyrrha then: Surprise most of all, that Tira would bother getting something so beautiful for her birthday. But then again, she felt grateful. Grateful that the woman would still bother to remember after all thatâs happened. It once again brings about that odd sense of safety within her... and true familiarity as she smiles to herself.
â...thank you, Tira. For remembering.â she thanked. When she looks up at the window again, the crow is already gone.
