[ Beside River, his Scouting colleague is having a time of it, struggling to wrangle a large raven perched on his gloved wrist. Cassian Andor has a Tevene accent himself, although he’s been cagey about precisely where in the empire he might be from originally. He’s not fond of the Venatori or even the ruling powers before the Venatori; that much is clear. And what’s become readily apparent over their assignment together is that Cassian is fully a city spy, comfortable working in seedy Minrathous bars and criminal underbellies and cobblestoned streets. Less so this bleak perpetual Marcher rain, the muddy ground, setting up tents, drawing maps, hacking through the underbush.
And this damned raven likes to peck. Some of the fingertips of his cheap gloves have worn through after years of use, and he lets loose a small yelp of pain as it nips at him, having to smother the noise, hoping no Tevene scouts heard it. He talks to it in a low voice, pleading, ] I don’t have any food for you, sorry, it’s a message—
[ He hadn’t ever expected needing bird handling on his resumé. Other people had always handled the messenger ravens, in his past life. He’s starting to realise his misstep. ]
free falling; also native au
[ Beside River, his Scouting colleague is having a time of it, struggling to wrangle a large raven perched on his gloved wrist. Cassian Andor has a Tevene accent himself, although he’s been cagey about precisely where in the empire he might be from originally. He’s not fond of the Venatori or even the ruling powers before the Venatori; that much is clear. And what’s become readily apparent over their assignment together is that Cassian is fully a city spy, comfortable working in seedy Minrathous bars and criminal underbellies and cobblestoned streets. Less so this bleak perpetual Marcher rain, the muddy ground, setting up tents, drawing maps, hacking through the underbush.
And this damned raven likes to peck. Some of the fingertips of his cheap gloves have worn through after years of use, and he lets loose a small yelp of pain as it nips at him, having to smother the noise, hoping no Tevene scouts heard it. He talks to it in a low voice, pleading, ] I don’t have any food for you, sorry, it’s a message—
[ He hadn’t ever expected needing bird handling on his resumé. Other people had always handled the messenger ravens, in his past life. He’s starting to realise his misstep. ]
Cartwright. Do you have any snacks? For the bird.