All the Little Songbirds, All the Silent Trees

@Shady

Beck the Thrush had always preferred autumn to any of the other seasons. It was the season when the entire world let out a collective sigh, and the trees finally shook themselves free of their old leaves. Animals slowed their foraging, people celebrated the harvest, and Beck could finally use the fireplace in their room.

Provided they were in their room, that is. Beck much preferred to be out in the crunch and crackle of the dead leaves, to smell the crispness in the air that they associated so vividly with the sweet apple cider their mother used to make for them and their siblings. They especially loved crouching beside the tree trunks, rooting about in the leaves looking for new species of fungi to add to their field journal. Insects were dying by the dozen, too, and their shadow boxes always filled up quickly this time of year.

The higher-ups had, of course, elected to send Beck out to convert the stone-worshippers this time of year. Usually Beck wouldn't mind--they delighted in enlightening the minds of the peasants in the countryside--but this year there was supposed to be a bioluminescent moss appearing on the trees for the first time in centuries. They wanted to be around for that.
There was no arguing with their betters, though, and so Beck shrugged off the disappointment and set out with modest provisions and a crate full of illuminated scripts of the Twin Truths, pulled along in a cart by a pony Beck knew to be horribly addicted to fermented apples.

Their journey took them west from Utherland, and they ended up in the tiny village of Willowfast. They'd had to hunt for it on the map, and when they arrived they found the residents to be steeped in pagan beliefs. Totems hung above every doorway and iron shavings were scattered underfoot. Even the tavern was named after some legend about a troll king. This tavern was where Beck made their temporary home, and it was there they sat every night, nursing an ale and slowly but surely making conversation with bar patrons and the bartender himself. It was hard work--these people were suspicious of newcomers and even more suspicious of the Nesting Order, as Beck explained. But it helped that they had a friendly face and a softspoken manner.

Aeron had been away from home for too long.

Well. Chosen home. It hurt too much to be back where he’d lived with Mama until he was twelve. He’d tried that for a while — going back after he’d grown up. But he’d only lasted maybe three months tops. It was like every corner he walked around revealed a memory of his mother, but not in the good, comforting way. No. It was more like a knife to the chest, reminding him that she was gone and always would be. That was her home; her friends; her life. He needed to make his own way.

And gods knew he wanted nothing to do with that … person… that had donated sperm to the Cause of Aeron. It was bad enough he had to look like the asshole — he didn’t want to have to look at him.

So, Willowfast.

It’d taken a while to establish himself, but once he’d established himself as a live-and-let-live sort of person that tried to stay out of the way, the locals had warmed up well enough. Especially since he’d shown up as a young, scrappy 14-year-old kid. Even claiming to be eighteen had only gotten him so far. Such as a job, but no real sort of responsibility or trust until he’d proven himself.

Now? He was the beloved twenty-something-year-old middle school boy that endeared everyone.

And he’d been gone a few weeks to get a new saddle from a fancy leather worker in a bigger city. And now he was back.

He made a beeline for the tavern immediately.

“Margie!” Aeron called the instant he burst through the doors, heading for the middle-aged barkeeper who had all but become an auntie to him. “Guess who got you some of that fancy soap you like so much?”

“The same lad that didn’t take the washing down off the line ‘afore he went ‘n run off for three weeks?” The short woman raised an eyebrow, looking at him with faux sternness.

“Hey now.” Aeron grinned sheepishly and held the soap out in front of her nose. “Just… breathe deep.”

Marge snorted.

“No, no, other way.” Aeron demonstrated with an over-exaggerated deep breath.

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “You little pest you.”

Beck stirred from their writing as a young fellow entered. They'd seen him a few times before; he seemed familiar with the bartender and plenty of the other people. They had yet to speak with him personally, but he did seem like am easier target than the rest of the townsfolk. Maybe they'd buy him a drink and see if they could steer the conversation toward religion. They eyed him, trying to predict what he'd drink. Most people in the village liked ale; that was a safe bet. Others were a bit more stuffy about their drinking preferences. Cider, maybe?
Beck fidgeted with the wooden brooch on their cloak that identified them as a Thrush; it was in the shape of the bird after which their designation was named, and Ardeus's name in the Old Script inscribed on the circular border. They should probably have hidden it to start, as most of the other Thrushes did, but they believed honesty was the best way into country folk's hearts. The old religion made simple people slow to trust, always wary of a stranger and their questions. Best to make them all feel at ease by wearing one's heart on one's sleeve, as it were.

Tove Goatsknee began every day with pancakes, without fail. She'd awaken at the crack of dawn, which was growing earlier with each passing day, and she'd trip over a few of the cats on her way to the kitchen.
She never used magic while making these pancakes. That would defeat the sentimentality, and her fathers never used magic with them either. Tradition was tradition.
Today was no different, but dinner was another matter entirely. Tove had been late getting more goblin ear leaves for her customer, Fallon, and she needed to run them over today. That meant trudging down to the village and entering the tavern--something she preferred not to do, given the wariness with which the townspeople treated her. From there she'd pass the herbs off to Fallon's husband, and hopefully she'd be home before the redcaps came out of their burrows.
She was outside the tavern now, arguing with a young stablehand about the cat that had draped itself around her shoulders and refused to leave. It was blue-gray with dark stripes and arrogant yellow eyes, and it stared down at the stablehand judgementally.
"Madre, you just can't have a cat inside," the young man was saying. "People in town get sick around em sometimes."
"And I'm telling you I have no control over whether he stays or goes," Tove retorted, tapping her staff on the ground for emphasis. "Cats have minds of their own, much like myself. I intend to go inside--I have business to conduct."
"Conduct it outside, then, please." He wrung his hands. "I'm sorry, Madre. But I can fetch him for you!"

(Came back here and discovered my phone autocorrected Beck to Becky without my knowledge -_-)

(haha I noticed that as well, ahhh autocorrect)

Aeron gave a charming, boyish grin and coaxed her into taking the soap from his hands. Then he ran a hand through his mop of blond hair that was flying around crazy from the speed he'd cantered here. He walked his horse frequently, obviously. He wasn't a cruel master. But he had a need for speed and Aenyra liked to run as much as he did.

"Need any barrels moved or anything?" Aeron asked.

"Not right now." She shooed him off and poured him a tankard of ale. "Take a load off, boy. Gods know you've probably been running yourself ragged."

"Careful, you're starting to sound like you care," he joked, leaning across the bar to give her a kiss on the cheek and smooth her hair down, motions surprisingly gentle despite his huge size.

He took the mug and turned to look at the other patrons. His gaze locked on a skinny... person? he wasn't sure what to make of them -- that he didn't know. He jauntily started across the room towards them when he saw them watching him, a warm smile on his face.

(Should have mentioned this in the character discord but Beck wears rectangular wire-rimmed glasses on a little chain)

Beck blinked as the young man caught their eye and approached; they hadn't expected him to come over at all. They returned the smile readily though, straightening and closing their notebook with the pencil inside.
"Hello," they said with a nod, adjusting their cloak. "Apologies; I didn't mean to stare." They were dressed in their robes as usual--freshly washed after a tumble in the mud yesterday--and it was fairly obvious from the brooch and the color of those robes that they belonged to the Nesting Order. How much this young man knew about the Nesting Order, though, was what Beck planned on finding out. He had the fresh look of someone who'd do very well as a Thrush.

(ooh nice!)

"Not at all." Aeron waved his hand dismissively, then transferred his mug over to his left hand to free up his right. "Just realized I don't know your face. Aeron Munen." He offered a hand.

"Beck." They shook his hand firmly. "I'm new in town, doing a little traveling." They nodded at his mug. "Can I buy you a round?" Aeron Munen. They'd have to remember that name; it was distinctive enough. Maybe mention him to the higher-ups if he seemed like a good candidate.

"Ah, Margie just loaded me up." Aeron shook his head with a smile. "Thanks, though." His gaze flicked across Beck, assessing them and quickly pegging them as one of the birds. Oh well. He'd try not to hold it against them, so long as he didn't see any misbehavior.

They felt Aeron eyeing him and dipped their head, trying to remain relaxed. They could feel judgement in the stare, but hopefully it was only wary judgement and not hostile. "So you're a local here?" they asked after a pause. "I've seen you in here before."

"Something like that," Aeron agreed, deciding to give them a chance and sitting down on a nearby stool. "Been living around here for a while at least. Enough to make myself the local pest."

"Ain't that the truth," Margie muttered.

Aeron laughed. "But a loveable one."

"Mhmm."

He turned back to Beck with a smirk. "So what brings you through here?"

"Oh." They gave an awkward smile and gestured at their notebook. "I'm a naturalist by hobby; I heard there was an interesting species of toad around here, among other things." That wasn't a lie; that was part of why they were here. But saying outright that they were on a converting mission didn't seem wise. "It's called the Western Gourd-Backed Toad. Dull brown with an orange or green back, usually very warty. Have you seen any around?"

"Um... I mean, I don't know toad names," Aeron said thoughtfully, taking a drink of his ale. "But I've seen brown and orange ones all over the place down in the leaf litter by the crick. They're cute little fellas."

"Aren't they?" They grinned, leaning forward. "And they have fascinating mating patterns. I've always wanted to study some; this seemed like a good place to start. To which crick are you referring?"

Aeron began pointing to the left, then hesitated and pointed to the right instead as he mentally oriented himself properly. "Two hills over that way, around the bend. Maybe a twenty-minute walk on foot? Not far."

"Wonderful." They flipped open their book and scribbled that down beside an intricate sketch of the toad in question. "Thank you! Is there anything else one might find interesting hereabouts, as far as flora and fauna go?"