The cries of the thunderbirds rang like distant bells, like thunder over the mountains, like the memory of a war. But down on the ground in the growing circle of horses - in Isra’s audience - the world waited.
Acton waited, too, though he could never be quite still. His mane blew against his neck in the thin breeze, his ears flickered constantly, his gaze was always moving, always taking stock. He wondered if he should create an illusion-bird of ice and storms, and if the others would follow it away; he wondered if he should attempt the illusion of walls around them, and if that would dissuade them from attacking.
But for once the ex-Crow did not want to provoke.
He knew as well as Isra their position was terribly tenuous; he felt no more confident when Caligo settled on the unicorn’s other side.
Through it all their queen’s voice continued, rolling out the story, like a silver road that could lead them all home.
Acton would try to let it. This time he did not feel like a coward for choosing peace.
And so he did nothing, only let out something soft as a sigh as the unicorn finished her story and gave her warning-and-hope and rested her chin across his back.
we have a flair for the shade and in-between
