[ Angel Devil. ] [ chatcube, or action. ] [ if you're visiting the rose barn, look for the door with the creepy bat-and-angel-wing sigil on it. Knock first! Or get zapped. ]
[ he is a cube to him right now. he is a bird who is a cube who does not have a prehensile tail to curl around Muffin. he feels the absence, all of a sudden, a phantom limb fizzing away in the air and nowhere.
[peeps a little too loud, as if surprised to get an answer to a question he just asked a second ago. his nerves are buzzing right now.
that's not a no. and equally importantly, it's not a yes yet either. there's no tease or easy nickname tossed off— quetzal gets it. it'll be a real namecall.]
Take your time. ...Have been without this long. Can wait little longer for the right one.
[ it takes, certainly, a little longer. and then a little longer more, and some longer more after that.
he thinks in silence, at first. but in little pieces, he tries out sounds, feeling each out. it's quiet, but the cubecall is still open.
they've been communicating, like this, but he's been letting his gut guide what comes out of his mouth. now he isn't trying to be automatic. now he's trying to study the shape, feel, of the sounds. perhaps it's a little similar, to the way he'd made play of the simple act of speaking.
making it an act of pure scrutiny, though, doesn't work out. he oft talks himself out of sounds he'd briefly gotten attached to, after walking it around a little. he knows he's definitely gotten a lot more opinions on the sounds he can make, but...
[ ...opinions... it would be nice if he could fit all of him into just a sound, but there's just too much gryphon. maybe it can be... something else. some smaller piece of him, so that a little bird can fit it in his own beak to call. ]
[ he thinks about the piece of this gryphon that's only his: the things he feels when he looks at him. feels the shape of the sound they make him want to make. and gives a short, gentle crooning sound.
[Muffin waits and listens to the small sounds as quetzal works. he stays still and quiet, lest he interrupt and sway quetzal's direction with a misplaced chirp or flutter.
he doesn't know his old namecall, but he remembers the spaces it filled. he was the runt of the litter when he learned to sing, and he sang all the louder for it. as he grew, his call stayed sharp. he loved his flock and he sang their songs, but he wasn't going to stay sheltered in the chorus. his call demanded attention and authority.
that staccato-bright call could only have been made in that flock. likewise this new call, now, could only be made in this moment, by this person.
muffin sits up to face the cube and croons softly back,]
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3/3
"--Let me think! It must be perfect." ]
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that's not a no. and equally importantly, it's not a yes yet either. there's no tease or easy nickname tossed off— quetzal gets it. it'll be a real namecall.]
Take your time. ...Have been without this long. Can wait little longer for the right one.
1/2
he thinks in silence, at first. but in little pieces, he tries out sounds, feeling each out. it's quiet, but the cubecall is still open.
they've been communicating, like this, but he's been letting his gut guide what comes out of his mouth. now he isn't trying to be automatic. now he's trying to study the shape, feel, of the sounds. perhaps it's a little similar, to the way he'd made play of the simple act of speaking.
making it an act of pure scrutiny, though, doesn't work out. he oft talks himself out of sounds he'd briefly gotten attached to, after walking it around a little. he knows he's definitely gotten a lot more opinions on the sounds he can make, but...
... ]
2/3
he fluffs up into a little huffy orb, and surely his cube looks a sight, too.
opinions. shouldn't this call represent as much of who Muffin is as it can? ]
3/4
it would be nice if he could fit all of him into just a sound, but there's just too much gryphon.
maybe it can be... something else.
some smaller piece of him,
so that a little bird can fit it in his own beak to call. ]
4/4
and gives a short, gentle crooning sound.
Oo-woo. ]
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he doesn't know his old namecall, but he remembers the spaces it filled. he was the runt of the litter when he learned to sing, and he sang all the louder for it. as he grew, his call stayed sharp. he loved his flock and he sang their songs, but he wasn't going to stay sheltered in the chorus. his call demanded attention and authority.
that staccato-bright call could only have been made in that flock. likewise this new call, now, could only be made in this moment, by this person.
muffin sits up to face the cube and croons softly back,]
... Oo-woo?
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Oo-woo.
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[un-mutes the call, laughing]
Is perfect!
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More than. I love it.
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You will! I will! Will hear it every day. Listen to birds singing in morning and you'll know which song is mine.
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but he's already asked for so much tonight]
Will always be part of my call.
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but someone will carry him with them.
...
"With that! I do think it is time I take to my rest, for the night. I am starting to weary, and you are supposed to be sleeping over." ]
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Good night. Listen for me in morning, okay?
🎀
"Have to hear my hard work."
...but instead of cutting off right away, the dovecube just watches Muffin, a little longer, quiet.
and then it goes. ]