Location: Shadowell Manor: Chair 15 -> Chair 15.
Hit Points: 6
There were two ravens sat comfortably.
They were as black as black could be.
Then one of them said to his mate,
where shall our dinner take?
With a downe derrie derrie derrie downe downe...
A cawing crow indeed, the bird's beady eyes begging at the bits of body, broken, battered, and bloodied. The smell of death freshly dealt, permeated the air as the carrion called out to be ripped asunder. Oh how the chair had done much to pulverize the meat, the tender flesh no doubt scattered across bone and marrow. A shake of preening feathers, and a ruffle of hunger flitted the talons upon his left shoulder. His companion it seemed minded not the cold as much as he. Down the man or woman fell, but not before divorcing the chair in one final act of desperation to escape. And yet now between the odd pair, surely one them could certainly have a premature dinner from this life cut short, surely it was dead. Or if not on the cusp of dying and not just fainted as before, given the evident splatter that excited his raven. Yet the bird waited patiently, as often he would claim the first cut and distribute the spoils, that and the beaks of ravens oft were not made to cut the sinew well from bone thus required greater predators to take claim. For still the master calmly sat, watching the events all unfold beneath the long-nosed mask and stroking his feathered friend.
what were they playing at? He pondered if indeed the guards were as innocent as they claimed? The surprise caught everyone, and most had scrambled out of their seats either fearing for their lives of being crushed from the falling duo or next up into the air. Yet he stood his ground, or rather stayed his seat, watching the show of panic set into motion. Scrambling underneath the projected trajectory, accounting for the pull, the wind, the last act and final swansong. The man in the last chair did not as much budge nor show a sign of concern, at a death nor the prospect of his very own. There was little argument to move, as certainly his chosen seat would have been adequately far from the fallout, and it seemed the curious man in the penultimate chair thought the very same. All the while most of the other guests took to their feet to escape, save for perhaps the other beaked man on the other end of the parade of chairs. What foul plot was afoot? The man in black had ironically survived the forest long enough to die. The grim twist of fate, which gave them all such a terrible beginning, and to one of them a terrifying end.
"Minced meat of exquisite taste,
A guest for some hors d'oeuvres,
We'll let nothing go to waste,
And thus our dinner is served."
A macabre sing-song comment came from the back. Still ominously stroking his bird as if such soothing touch was holding the hungry avian back. Certainly it was only naturally for a raven to eat what slivers of carrion it could find, yet the mockery of the dead may have been seen as a little more than just a fool's attempt to make gallows humor. Just what sort of dinner were they all going to attend?