-A Blip in the Night

A small orb of light hovers low over the forest. The redness of it sets a rather sharp contrast against the dark green of the trees and navy of the night sky. She does enjoy the fact that the minimal lighting of the small town not far off doesn't disrupt the visibility of the stars over the forest. That is, the lighting of her town, and the stars over her forest. She wouldn't claim ownership of the stars. Not yet anyway. Though there was always room for ambition, that wasn't her nature, anyway.

The orb of light began to move towards the district, taking about ten minutes to actually arrive. The place did have something of a... rustic charm to it. It may not have been her exact style, but she admired her handiwork nonetheless. This would be the first time she'd been back inside the district for a while, and she noticed that a few of the houses showed signs of life within. Not a lot, but a few.

There was one thing in particular that was completely different from how she remembered it. Where the house designated the so-called "leader" of the district, there now stood another building. Tall, perhaps even foreboding if it had been anybody else observing it. The orangish-red orb, however, felt no sense of apprehension. Instead, she just continued to hover ever closer to it, curiosity lighting the way through the darkened town.

Once she reached the foot of the Aviary, her movement shifted to bring herself upward, ascending until she reached the window. Peeking in, she caught sight of a living area. A table, some chairs. She could just make out a few feathers lying around the floor. She continued upwards to the second window. Through here, she could see a bed, however she couldn't quite tell if there was anyone currently sleeping in it.

Without a moment's hesitation, she let herself into the room through the window. Once inside, she took up a position beside the bookself. She remained for only a few seconds before the orb began to stretch vertically. Before long, it had molded itself into the figure of a woman, roughly 5'8" in height with thick black hair that would retain any position it was put into. On her face were several markings similar in color to the orb of light. They seemed to extend the features of her face, making it appear as though she were smiling, when in reality the corners of her lips were down-turned in a frown.

Curiously, the woman ran a finger over the bookshelf and proceeded to examine the finger, checking if any dust had come off the shelf. Without looking away from the digit, she spoke. "I like what you've done with the place."

Damian preferred not to sleep. He always avoided the action as long as possible, reading for occupation and drinking caffeine for alertness. Regardless of what he did, however, sleep came. Just not tonight.

The young district leader was busy preening his feathers, using the rusted kettle's reflection as a mirror. He had quickly found out since coming here that the larger the wings, the messier they would get. How many precious feathers had he removed this night alone? Too many, he thought. The boy shouldn't lose any, if possible.

Damian stifled a yawn as he pulled the last feather out, smoothing out the edges as he went. There: 50 centimeters of perfection. The boy grinned warmly at the reflection, then grabbing the kettle with his bare hands and pouring himself a glass of tea. The steam rolled off the tea gently while his hands burned. Ah, well; just another centimeter to his wingspan.

The boy was so occupied with his beverage that he hardly noticed the light coming up. He assumed it was Husk at first, that the hunter was brave enough for another visit. When the calm woman entered instead, rubbing her finger for dust, it was a welcomed surprise. He enjoyed visitors, if only for the entertainment they provided. This one already forced the drowsiness of midnight away.

"Thank you," he smirked in reply, then pouring another glass for her. "Would you like some tea?"

The woman gave something of stifled chuckle as she saw the boy. He was just that, a boy. He couldn't have been any older than 20, if that. Those appendages which were surely too small to be called wings only made him seem younger, in her eyes. From the way he seemed to treat them, they were decorations. Nothing more.

She ignored his offer, opting to get right to the point. She'd never been one for tea anyway. "I thought this house was supposed to be for the," she took a pause which served to notably belittle her next word, "'leader' of the district. Know where i can find him?"

Of course, she realized that in all likelihood she was currently speaking to Woodenway's district leader. That would be just her luck and she found herself hoping this wasn't the case. For all she knew, he could be the district's leader's son.

The question was hurtful. Damian knew he shouldn't take offense-- he was a prodigy, ahead of his time-- but it was hard to. Did he not look like district leader material? Did he seem that soft, that fragile to her, that he could not possibly be the leader of the very district he resided in? It was an insult no matter how he spun it. An insult. The pain he felt was not of the physical; it was of the worst kind. Emotional pain.

He took a deep breath in. Breathe. Breathe. You're overreacting. He's overreacting. Put her in her place. Prove her wrong. Be better than her-- or, at least, worse than her.

". . . Speaking," he answered calmly, sipping on his boiling-hot tea gently. Damian could not help but, ah, accidentally not offer her the tea. He would eventually offer it to her, yes, but perhaps after it cooled off a little bit-- say, South Pole? After all, revenge was best served cold.

"Is there anything you would like to discuss with me?"

The woman waited rather impatiently as the man seemed to compose himself. Oh, had something she said offended him? Poor baby. The breaths did nothing to make her feel better anyway. He couldn't even take a single offhand comment? It wasn't even intentionally offensive. If he couldn't handle this much, well she knew herself well enough to know that she could be much worse if the mood struck her. Poor, poor baby.

She made a show of letting out a disappointed sigh. "That's what I was afraid of."

The woman made her way across the room and sat ton the bed, making herself right at home. And why not? This was her home. This whole place was hers. The house, the district, the area. She crossed one leg over the other. She was dressed simply in a pair of khaki cargo pants and a tank top, however if she'd been wearing her dress, the action would have appeared almost seductive in nature. Her stilettos just didn't get along with the forest at all.

"Yeah. I thought it was important that I meet you, anyway. Why don't you tell me a little about yourself and this district? I'm so curious." There was no sarcasm in her voice, for once. She truly was interested in knowing more about what the boy thought of Woodenway and his place in it. Interested in making any corrections in his ideas, if need be.

((I'm confused. This is in his bedroom right? How is he making tea in his bedroom? Or did he just happen to have a hot kettle of tea on his nightstand? Somehow this wouldn't surprise me either XD Also, she's wearing the same clothes in the picture I showed you.))

(( Its the upstairs, meaning the kitchen. > <; Sorry its so confusing (and really makes little sense); I might revise the Aviary's layout, but for now, let's say she's sitting at the kitchen table. ))

Damian's cup cracked a little, but he maintained his smile. Long ago, he was trained for such an action; and now, he finally could put the formerly-useless skill to use. It pained him so to rely on such lessons, and not in the good way.

"It's best not to make such snap judgements, madam," the boy warned with a sip, his fingers petting the crack in hopes for a papercut. "Such things have a habit of . . ." Blood finally dripped from a finger; the boy held it up with a grin. ". . . biting back."

He wouldn't let her win. Not at his own game.

"I still don't know much about the district-- we're rather small, as-is," Damian shrugged as he leaned against the oven while facing his guest. His voice was determinedly calm throughout. "I keep to myself, and they don't visit. Most, anyways." Another sip. "Our hunter, Husk, came over once. Cheeky boy, floating without wings.

"As for myself . . . There's not much to say." Not much he would say. "I enjoy reading and preening my wings, not to mention helping them grow." An exciting thought occurred to him. "Do you like to cause others pain, Ms . . . ?" Had she mentioned her name yet?

The woman kept an eye the boy the entire time. She had no way of knowing whether or not he was actually to talk to her, and if he was, then she had no way of knowing whether he'd tell the truth or not. In that case, she'd rely on body language. After it was already telling her plenty. The crack in the cup.. Oh no, if this boy was going to be offended by every little thing she said then she couldn't possibly expect much of anything from him.

Her eyebrows rose in interest at his response though. She may have been interested to see exactly how he bit back. It was nice to know that he had some kind of.. maybe not a fire, but a spark, at least, in him. A pleased smile crossed her lips. "I'd like to see that sometime."

The woman listened with only mild interest now. It seemed that he was something of a loner. She wondered if Husk had a fire in him too. The more, the merrier. His last question peaked her interest once more. The hot tea kettle, the blood on his finger, and now the excitement in his eyes at the question of pain. A masochist maybe? She took a moment to consider whether or not she liked this. Fear of pain was something that a lot of people had in common, and, when she thought about it, it may very well be that fear that gave power more than any other. Did that mean that she had no power over masochists and, therefore, over this boy? Not necessarily.

She gave a thoughtful "Hmm," as she considered how to answer the question. "Only to those that don't like receiving it." She had no intentions of giving the boy her real name. Not yet anyway. She drew inspiration for the made-up name from the color of her ball form. "The name's Scarlet. You?" She told the lie well enough, though she didn't honestly care if he noticed it. He asked for a way to address her and she gave him one.

Damian grinned not-so-pleasantly back at the woman, continually sipping on his tea. Oh, she would see it. Someday . . .

He was disappointed with Ms. Scarlet's reluctance of giving out pain like candy; he could always use a helping hand. Alas, her name didn't sound at all credible-- then again, neither did his. The boy decided to drop the question in case it came back to bite him.

"Damian," the leader shrugged, about to sip more on his tea before realizing he had drunk his cup dry. Saddened by his sudden lack of caffeine, the boy turned towards the hidden cup originally intended for Scarlet and helped himself, not caring whether or not she saw the gesture. He never cared much for 'guilt.'

"So." He took yet another satisfying sip, even when the drink was luke warm. "Does your visit have a point, or were you just popping in to say 'hello'?" Unlikely. She wanted something from him.