Reira might be the most ambitious seven-year-old in the world--scoping out the training yard, taming eagles, practising magic. She'd best be careful, because older aspirants than her have learnt the consequences of having too many irons in the fire.
Not that Foster particularly cares about literally any of Reira's proverbial fire-irons except one, and it's on that matter that he comes trotting--literally--across the ground, his paws full of what are pretty obviously just... dozens and dozens of feathers, from soft white downy ones and long grey flightquills.
He comes trotting because the is where he knows the sparrow is, but....
He can't... find her?
He can't find... the sparrow should be right.... right here...?
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Not that Foster particularly cares about literally any of Reira's proverbial fire-irons except one, and it's on that matter that he comes trotting--literally--across the ground, his paws full of what are pretty obviously just... dozens and dozens of feathers, from soft white downy ones and long grey flightquills.
He comes trotting because the is where he knows the sparrow is, but....
He can't... find her?
He can't find... the sparrow should be right.... right here...?
....oh. Ha ha.
He looks up.