More pain in his arm. Crow hissed under his breath as he trudged along. Birdshit, it stung. Not terribly, of course, and it never lasted very long, but the infernal burning in his arm never got any easier to bear. It was a constant reminder of his blunder, of his fall. A reminder of how he couldn't return home. More ice on the wings, so to speak. Not only was he stuck on the ground, he was to be consistently reminded of his blunder.

The ground had been agony, at first. Topdwellers were not meant to walk the aisles as long as Crow had. The first week on the ground, Crow had become progressively more sickly. The second week, he had tossed and turned, writhed and scream. He'd wet himself constantly, and food hardly stayed down for more than a minute before it came right back up. No Topdweller could explain the groundsickness, as they called it, but no one enjoyed it, least of all Crowley.

It had taken him several more weeks afterwards to recover from the sickness, and longer still to heal his arm enough to move it. By the time he had become strong enough to climb, months had passed, as near as anyone could tell. Crowley hadn't bothered speaking to any of the Shelffolk, and after a time, the Shelffolk had given up speaking to him. They tended his arm, fed him, and gave him a new set of clothes.

But they were blinded by the metal beneath their feet. Crow had heard the stories of the Grounded. He'd seen the petty squabbles of the 'TronBoyz and the Mercuries, the bloodshed of the Cinema armies who clashed over the most foolish of idols. False gods. No, Crowley had been trained by Feathered Serpent in the techniques of his ancestors, from leaping and running to fighting the dire beasts which lurked above. Anything below the rafters was pitiful and meek by comparison to the fierce Bluebird hordes, or the devastating giant owls which struck from the shadows without a sound. 

The Shelffolk had not required his thanks, for they did what any Topdweller would have done silently, and without prompting. He owed them a life debt, of course, but owing a life debt didn't mean he had to speak to them.

He'd wandered thus for some time, using his knife and stealth to survive. Lifting supplies from the Departments around him was suicidal, he knew. Then again, only two things would save him from eternal disgrace, and one of them was death. The other...the other required more manpower than he alone could offer. That was how Crowley had ended up at the Bargain Bin department. Adventurers and treasure hunters were what he needed, preferably ones which would work for free. He could offer little for anyone's services.

Luckily for him, he found almost immediately what he was looking for. A poster at one of the Bargain Bin taverns. Risky to go in there, but Crow was no stranger to risk. "Where is the owner of this poster?" He asked the man behind the counter inside. He was quickly ushered to the corner, where a trio of strangers sat together. Nothing impressed him, but free was free. "Hello. I am Crowley," he said on approaching, knowing that they would look at his ever-so-slightly twisted arm across his chest. "I will be joining you Grounded on yoour adventures. I have made your acquaintance."

He sat then, and closed his eyes. This was necessary. Working with these birdbrains was necessary.