"..." The crow yawned, stretching his beak wide. It was a fine morning, even if the forest was a touch empty today. That was unfortunate. He rather liked spying on deer. The crow reached a talon up to the place where his pictogram normally hung from a chain around his neck. His talons hit feather and he scratched around for a moment, puzzled. No, nothing was there.

"...Is pictogram supposed to be here. Is gone?! Eecaw! Is Gods kill crow! Is murder for losing pictogram. Is bad, is bad, is bad!" The crow was clearly in a high frenzy, shooting from the ground to the trees and back to the ground again. Bartholomew's eyes were wide and terrified and he could hardly fly straight, alternately crashing into trees and rocks as he attempted to find the lost pictogram. It was like his friend; always there, glowing with a tiny bit of warmth, given to him by the Gods upon entering the forest. If it wasn't there...Barty had no idea what would happen.

With a huff, he managed to calm himself for a few moments, sitting atop a high tree. His chest was heaving and a few feathers drifted down from the tree, landing atop the deer sleeping just below. His keen eyes scanned the area around him, looking for any sign of the little shape he held so dear. Black feathers puffed and fluffed, accentuating a red and gold dyed one, another gift. At least that hadn't been stolen.

The crow was completely unable to find...well, anybody at all. It seemed the forest was stark empty, devoid of nearly all deer. This puzzled the crow, who was used to seeing the land of the Gods packed with deer and brimming with noise. Without deer, there would be no sign of his pictogram. He knew he hadn't lost it either...With a despairing caw, he lit down upon the statues of the Gods, leaving a feather at their base. A loud caw issued from the small bird, echoing across the forest.

"Is thief can hear me, is need pictogram back! Is very important to this one, is perhaps cost his life if is not get it back. Is have many friends and will call if is not bring back. Is ask nicely..." The end sentence petered out quite pathetically as the crow sat hoping and waiting for his dearest possession's return.

Matthieu: The forest about you is still, but there is a strange scent on the air. It is the bitter tang of burning tobacco. The trail is stale, but a keen nose could follow it like a ribbon through the trees into the distance, where the crosses and pillars of the old graveyard loom.

Ocean:
From behind you, opposite the God's statues comes a voice;
"Heh, a talking crow. Now I've seen everything."
The voice is British and while it is obviously a man it is not at once obvious where he is. It no longer feels as though you are alone, but neither can you see the owner of the new voice.

Seed: (I had assumed each deer was interacting separately, but if people wish to have a group interaction, or to find each other in the disconnected forest, I would be totally fine with that.)

As you make your way through the trees you stumble upon a very familiar note left folded in your path. Someone must have snatched it from your den under the bridge and left it here for you to find. If you were to pick it up you would see below your own message, scrawled in a labored, childish hand the simple sentence;
Why should I?

Ocean: "Gold eh. Well that sounds valuable indeed, hopefully nobody stole it." There is false concern in the voice, you are amusing him. "They probably already pawned it for a pretty penny or two, you might never see it again." There is a lengthy pause, as though he considers something of interest, then speaks again; "What would you do, hypothetically speaking, if you were to never see the bobble again?"

Seed: "I'm game." The voice laughed through the trees. "But I'm curious, what more could you offer me? I already have what I want." The voice, or rather, the man who was speaking was close, maybe no more than a few yards. Still you can not see him, perhaps because he stands concealed behind a tree or some other form of stealth.

He turned his head to one side, contemplating the possibilities. Simply put, if the fellow wanted wealth, he had picked the wrong object. Appealing to material wealth was no good here.... But that was fine, since Seed mainly could supply things that were good for the mind.

"Let's see...I don't have much, I admit. A poem -- something old -- I've got a few quite dear that I still have the original copies of -- or something I compose for your sake, on a subject of your liking... Or a story. A different dried flower, even one from parts of the wood that it takes a different sort of movement to access... A few questions to be answered by the oldest trees in the forest; I could probably call in that favor... A favor from me, personally, provided it doesn't go against my morals..."

His face, calm and collected, cracked a little. The sadness was there, and the smile had a worn-out quality to it, almost amused at his own sadness. He shook his head and let his body droop a little, aware that it felt pointless to him. Now that he was no longer moving, it was hard to keep it back.

"Do you honestly think that by having it, you have its value? That you have anything that makes it valuable? "

The smell of tobacco smoke is not unfamiliar, somewhere, not in the forest, a parent oft' smells the same.
His steps are slow and heavy, easygoing almost, like a great ox, and he pauses, within the ruins, to give a nod to each and every gravestone.


_"Hallo"

he speaks, like he walks, slow and careful, passing amongst the pillars and stones, following the sharp smell ever still.

"Before, I didn't know for certain, only that The Forest didn't claim any responsibility for it, and you didn't know of me, which rules out every tree I've ever met. And also because you wouldn't have been able to write the note without help, much less move the flower of your own accord. Moving as a tree isn't something you can do easily or quickly enough to steal. That didn't rule out trees entirely, but it did rule out the Forest, which is/are terrible liars as a rule, and it ruled out any tree working alone.
Now, it's because you sound so disbelieving."

He paused at this next question. Because unlike the last two, it was easy...and it was hard. He knew himself well enough to know that if he answered it, he'd say too much, and he'd be missing her for days and days, and would probably end up hurting his wife's feelings, and he'd be utterly useless to everyone...And he'd miss her again, soul-drenchingly as ever.

"It belonged, or could have belonged, to my first love. It was valentines day, and I had given her some -- because to me, she always smelled like the poppies she wore as a fawn, because it set off the warmth in her eyes so well...And this one tumbled down off her antlers as we danced that night. I never saw her very often, you see, so I felt like saving it, with a bit of the wood from the logs where she slept. ...After she left, even after I knew she'd never come back..."

No, here it was. After this, it was all pretty words, and once he went there, there was no going back. But he did want it back. So here he went.

"I kept it; The presence of it, where all the world screamed absence, absence; A thing where I could look and feel full of those memories, a place in the world where I could look and see for one, faint moment the stubborn glitter in her eyes as I tried to get her over some half-imagined, half-joking grudge; the little fawn with the long legs who trembled at the side of the river, poppies pooling at her ears; the glistening of the rain on her face as I wiped the droplets away. The whispy curtains of willow branches, trembling that day in the storm, embracing us as we laughed together, for having run in the rain until we were drenched to the bone...The smell of the back of her neck as we danced, cheek-to-cheek; the sudden rush of seeing her again like an unexpected blessing; the way she looked back at me on her doe day, wearing for just a moment, my own pelt, laughing at the similarity...And me, realizing in that moment that I loved her in a way that will never die. I see it, and I feel those moments in my soul."

He blinked, letting the tears roll down his face. He had no shame in them.

Seed: There are several minutes where the only sound is the forest around you, but before you can worry that the man has left, he speaks again.
"What was her name?" His voice is flat, held steady but in his next sentence the mask chips; "You don't have to tell me, if you don't want to. I only ask because it will give us something to talk about while we walk." There is a rustling of grass, blades bend down under invisible feet and a shadow flickers, hinting at the man who stands just ahead of you.

Caravaggio did not do tears, he did not particularly enjoy them even when it was others doing the crying. So as men tend to do, he pretended they were not there; maybe out of some miss-placed concern for your pride. "Your flower is in the poppy patch, by the stone chick...forest for the trees and all that, but if you look I'm sure you'll find it. Or I could come with you.."
He lets the offer stand, not really sure if he wants to accompany you. Maybe he just wants to hear more about the smell of someone dancing, and running in the rain. Some sort of sad osmosis.

Lune: "Hm, white and glowing, yes that was it exactly. The deer, bigger than you, a buck with antlers and such, he went this way.." The gesture goes unseen. ..off down the river. I wouldn't be much of a gentleman if I let you go alone. Footprints in the mud of the bank appear, naked human feet, the only trace of the invisible man as he makes his way towards the bridge.

Seed nods and smiles sadly, satisfied that his answer was enough. It had to have been, really; love and pretty words were the only answers he ever had. He looks curiously at the bending grass, but decides not to press his luck too much -- really, he couldn't be incredulous about invisible thieves after arguing about talking to trees, after all.

"Thank you...It should be easy enough to find a dead flower among living ones..."

He began to walk in the direction of the poppy patch, but turned his head at the last minute.

"But you're welcome to come along. I'm not much in the mood for solitude, right now."

On their way, he talked a little.
"Her name was Payton... And as much as I miss her, and love her, if she came back, we couldn't be together. I've grown, and found other loves and made other promises... You can tell a dead relationship from a living one, very easily -- I'll never have another flower of hers; they're all dead, long ago."

Lune: Looking back through his shoulder, Caravaggio watches the little thing inspect his footprints and smiles. "I'm from a lot of places." In a playful mood, he walks backwards, leaving equally backwards footprints in the bank side.

Seed: The shadow walks, blending into yours at times. Caravaggio spends most of the walk silent, eager to listen. Only when you have finished does he talk again; "So she just left? I mean, she isn't dead, the way you talk about her."

Ocean: "Never had much time for deities myself, but whatever floats your little feathered boat I guess. Now I'm curious, what do these pictogram things do exactly, besides being shiny and getting themselves stolen? He shuffles, finding a more comfortable spot for his bare back on the tree against which he leans.

Ocean: "So the little squiggle says Bartholomew then, in whatever Crow-deer-forest language you write? Or are you one of those infinitely more interesting individuals who has more than one single name?" He let it slip that he had seen the pictogram because, quite frankly, he wasn't scared of the bird. Let it do it's worst, the necklace was safely stashed nearby. Letting his eyes wander Caravaggio watched the white stone statues behind the bird and when he next spoke his voice was filled with curiosity. "Hey bird, you said those two gave you the necklace right, so...you've talked with them, this God, or Gods, you said there are two right?"

Ocean: "Hm..hm.Hm.Hm." He scratches the stubble on his chin. "I could tell you where it is couldn't I...have never been fond of the name Barty anyway, at least not for me." There is a rustling of grass, footprints make their way towards the statues and invisible hands draw apart the ferns. Then it's there, floating in what must be his hand, twirling back and forth over invisible knuckles. "If, and only if, you tell me what you really talked about with those Gods of yours."

Ocean: He sees the flutter of wings and has just enough time to clutch the pictogram to his chest before the sharp little claws hit his skin. He shouts and swings out with his free arm, despite the flare of pain he knows his mutilated hand will bring.

"Eec-" The crow, not expecting resistance, is flung off to the side and onto his back. With a small screech of indignation, he fluffs up his feathers, strutting forward. Beady eyes were glassed over with anger.

"Is thief, Voice Child, is thief! Is give back, stupid!" With his agitation level rising, the crow's concentration was lost. Without the pictogram holding him back, he could easily revert--though he hadn't been aware of the fact at all. Feathers started falling like a cloud around him, covering him momentarily in a cloud of black. In another moment the feathers swirled away, leaving a man dressed only in a cloak of pitch-colored feathers with skin tanned a light brown and covered in long-healed marks. Dark brown eyes looked down near the source of where the voice had been from beneath a headdress shaped like a raven's face. He backed up a few steps, eyes widening. A scratchy voice came from his throat, the same as his crow's caw.

"Is see what done?! Is stupid fool. Aaca! Is not tell anybody or Barty kill Voice Child. Is kill!" His form quivered for a moment and then he sat down hard on the forest floor, facing away from the source of the voice, his eyes closed for a moment. A large hand rubbed his lightly scarred face with his shoulders slowly dropping. With a sigh, the feather cloak swirled once in the wind as he slowly shrunk back to his other form. Barty remained turned away from the voice, head lowered and clearly ashamed.

"Is see? Caa. Is not supposed to know, Voice Child. Is not mean kill; is never kill. Is sorry, chh. Is what talk to Gods about, if is not understand. Is not know this one could do that still!" A faint attempt at laughter came from the small bird, which quietly turned bitter.

"Is why pictogram is so important, this one thinks. Is not hurt, this one hopes? Is feel skin." The crow hopped forward to blink up at where his pictogram was held, assuming that its holder was there somewhere.

"Is not tell anybody, Voice Child. Is understand? Is bad thing for this one. Is possible force him to leave forest if is happen again; maybe now, is not know. Is understand little crow?"

[[You gave me a good idea for his pictogram. |D Sorry about the rather long post there...:p]]

(Apologies for the slow replies on my part guys, school final projects are eating my TEF time. My responses will likely be confined to once or twice a day in the evenings, so don't rush to post on my account. So far this has been epic fun, I hope you all are enjoying.)

Mattieu: "I might have. He punctuates with the hiss of another cigarette as he inhales. "You're bigger than I expected." It was safe to say Caravaggio was intimidated, his strong dislike for others larger than himself was just one more reason to stay hidden in the shadows.

Ocean: "Son of a -----...woo." He watches the change with amazement. He had made the mistake of thinking the crow a simple amusement, something to toy with. Mistake... Oh how he hated shape-shifters.

"One minute you're trying to peck my eyes out, the next you're asking if I'm ok? You my feathered little friend, have a warped sense of priorities." The pendant swings and clatters to the grass at your talons. "F'it was so important you should have just said so, sheesh. AND, stop calling me voice-child and you should have warned me about that whole...changing thing." There is a ruffle in the ferns, some exasperated gesture about your change.

Seed: "Hm." It sounded to Caravaggio like the miss had found another, perhaps less emotional forest hubby and ditched the green one, but with a great amount of restraint he kept that little criticism to himself. No need for more water-works. "God I need a smoke...oh, your flower is over there..." He gestures, as he is in the habit of despite the redundancy of it. "By the stone chick." As he watches him search, Caravaggio drums his fingers. "Soo, did you find somebody else? The way you talk it has been a while since she left."

Celticmystress: I would love to! He's human all the time anyway, so whichever form you prefer for LB is fine. You can also change the setting/intro if you wish, it could even be somewhere other than The Forest. c8

A small half laugh was given.

_{"Only sometimes"}

he assured, frowning slightly then.
_{"My form is more convenience than anything else. I am not so real as I might look"}



He settled down in the long, dark grasses, looking around at the stones scattered about, no doubt they were once fine and new and white.
Or maybe not.


_{"May I ask why you took my scarf?"}

he questioned, it was only a guess, but an educated one at least.

<sub>"Come now, only human hands or a creature smaller than most deer could ever reach it"

he watched the smoke twine upwards, dissipating against the pale blue of the sky.


"And without arms, one would need to swim as well"

he added in an idle way. holding his breath before exhaling, watching the condensation rise, not unlike smoke of his own.



"What is your name?"</sub>

_{"The only one I've seen or smelled"}

he smiled.

_{"My name is Matthieu, or Mattie"}

among other things.



_{"So I'm going to ask again. Why take a cloth scrap?"}

he tilted his head, honestly curious.

((That was awesome, haha she can be a little creepy herself, bring it on!))

The wind shifted again, and she stood still once more and then turned her face to the mansion. The wind chewed at her face, she cursed this abnormally freezing weather for spring and marched to the victorian building, a steady gait stomping into the snow.

She passed stone gargoyles snarling at the woods beyond as she stepped onto the porch. Twisting the knob of a deeply carved heavy walnut door, she stepped into her massive home. Breathing out a sigh to exspell the rest of the cold air from her lungs, she looked around, not bothering to take off her coat yet. In an instant she knew what was moved and what was not... nothing. None of the sculptures, ancient books, gorgeous paintings, or other priceless artifacts were disturbed on the ground floor.

She tilted her head towards the staircase. She set her cane in a corner near the coat rack at the door. Bending down to her boot, she unsheathed a small dagger. Holding it in her gloved hand, she swiftly leapt up the stairs; taking two at a time. The door to the first room was cracked, all the others were locked as she'd left them. The fireplace glowed beneath the door, and invited her in with its warmth, lightly shouldering the door open and stepping in, her silver eyes quickly searched the room. This was no robbery. After a tense moment of observation, the woman let out an audible sigh, as she unbuttoned her long dress jacket and casually draped it over the back of her fireside chair. Pulling at each black leather finger, pale clawed hands were revealed as she peeled off her gloves. Slipping the dagger back in her boot, Bones bent over to something in the fire, a cast-iron japanese tea pot.

"Care for tea...?" She asked gently as she pulled the pot away from the fire's flames and began pouring herself a cup.

EDIT: WO, SMALL TEXT BLEEDING.

[[Haha, Barty would say he's right on to mistrust shape shifters. xD]]

"Is not...know that is able to change back." The crow waved a wing rather nonchalantly, belied by his slightly quivering body. In truth, it had scared him too, maybe more than the invisible man standing nearby.

"Is not actually hurt. Is not want to hurt." The crow's wings shrugged once, up-down. "Is want make sure Voice Child okay." Seeing the pendant dropped, Barty cawed in excitement and hurriedly picked it up, placing it back around his own neck. It glowed once, brightly, before settling on his chest.

"Is sorry. Is not know is quite so important. Is think crow permanent. Is not warn because..." His black feathered head lowered a touch, eyes closing momentarily. He wouldn't say, but it was clearly a mark of shame for him. However, out of wariness for his pictogram, the crow fluttered to the nearest branches of a tree high above the ground.

"Is not change again, this one thinks. Is Voice Child prefer other name?"

The crow nodded in acquiescence. "Is Carvaggio. Is like Griffin too, yes yes. Is call Barty if want, but this one responds to most things." The crow bobbed his head once more, tilting his head back and forth.

"Is very strange creature, Carvaggio. Is thank for giving back pictogram." The crow lifted from the tree and made one wide circle about the whole area before landing back above where the other's head might be.

"Is very tricky. Is crow like, chh. Is not like when take pictogram!" Laughter rang out from the tree in the form of harsh caws. It wasn't hard to amuse the little thing.

"Chh. Is perhaps correct, Voi-Carvaggio. Is perhaps not need leave forest now, this one thinks. Is see later. Is this one keep sharp eye and watch; is not miss much." With a wink, the crow took off from the branch, swooping low once. Barty held no ill will towards the thief; he honestly couldn't. After all, he'd returned it, hadn't he? A caw loosed from his beak as he soared off into the distance.

Now that his pictogram was safe, everything was how it should be.

[[Thanks for the RP. ♥]]

She slightly shifts her attention to the area where the voice came from, more out of innocent curiosity than anything, she smirked when she saw nothing. Her eyes shifted to the paned window, and watched as another thin cloud passed over the moon. A chuckle bubbled in her throat,"If you'd defaced my sculptures downstairs, this would be a different matter entirely." she cooed, if her words hadn't been so strong anyone would have though she was speaking to a child. She poured another cup of tea and plopped two sugars in it. "Where would you like this?" The aroma of Chai filled the air. Though she wasn't fond of being kept on her toes in her own home, she admired his abilities and would much rather befriend such a being.

She watched as the coat moved by itself, and then take a seat at the chair. Only a stride away with her long legs the woman placed the cup and saucer gently on the small table beside him. "Fascinating..." The woman mused, and grabbed two more slices of firewood; promptly tossing them on the fire with a flurry of embers dancing up the chimney. She turned to a bookcase across the room, which she had to pass him to get to. With a long clawed finger she tipped the spine of a red book and opened it. Reading it as she walked. Her theatrical voice poured over the words with ease and accuracy.

" 'It's horrible enough, but I shall tell you the whole story. First, though, you must get me some food, and light the fire. I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I'm cold. Yes, yes, I shall tell you the whole story. But you must promise not to tell a soul.' " She looked up, her silver eyes looking at the place where he was sitting though she could not see him. "Herbert George Wells. Wonderful novel." She held it out to him, the same book he had given her when last they met. She took a seat in her chair, and crossed her legs. "Thought it was a joke when you gave it to me... you're quite honest C, under it all."