Dare From Gods into the hands of thieves

It was neither late nor early. It was right there on the border where waning night and rising day met. The hour was neither dark nor light, but a gray in-between. Gray was the day, gray is the night. The dew lay thin on the streets. The warmth was waiting on the horizon with the first light. The roads, the city's arteries, were empty and quiet. The City of Fools lay motionless. Even it's beggars were sleeping, huddled together in the gutter with stray dogs.

"A black eyed dog he called at my door..."

No nightingale was singing. The thief hummed low to herself. A thin thread of sound slipped through the heavy breathing of the sleeping city. Her voice stood out. But not because it was beautiful. It was transparent in a way, unremarkable, empty of charm. It only drew notice because there was nothing else to hear. The illusion of presence in the absence of someone else.

"A black eyed dog he knew my name..."

Most priests were greedy: relic or forgery, it made no difference. If there was profit to be made, they’d hack off their own cocks and call it divine. Silk was fairly certain some already had. She sang as she walked along empty, narrow streets. She held up the black, stiff hand to the uninterested moon. To view it better in the moon's silvery grey light. Holy or horseshit? Black as rotted fruit, fingers curled like it was meant to hold something. The skin had tightened over the bones and the long nails yellowed but clean.

Still, the rings on the hands were stunning, filigreed silver, opals like cloudy, blind eyes, one with a tiny ruby clenched between two lion’s teeth. She turned the hand over, searching for enchantment in its palm, but it looked like a typical hand from a corpse. She stripped the rings off with quick tugs, the relic hand's flesh crackling like old parchment under her treatment. Then she tossed the withered hand into a heap of sour trash from an inn. It landed with a soft thud among fish bones and rotting cabbage.

"A black eyed dog he knew my name..."

A black-eyed raven rifled through the trash where the hand was discarded. Its wings fluttered dark against the grey night as it let out a startled squawk.

The fright turned to curiosity as the bird settled back down. A few hops up the heap took it closer to the unwanted appendage. Its throat puffed, and it let out a low click click click, an inorganic noise that echoed funny between the alley walls.

"One finger, two..." it sang in raven-speak, which for most of the unacquainted sounded like animal squawks. "The old priest doesn't need them anymore. Do you?"

With a few sharp pecks and clawing feet, the ring finger came loose. The raven snapped the finger up in its beak, raised its head to the moonslit, dusk-shaded sky, and swallowed the finger whole.

Wings spread wide, lifting the raven out of the alley. It trailed after the thiefy one who had done the tossing, swift and without shadow in the blank grey of almost-evening. But the girl was not running away, she was walking even, no hands in pockets and at an honest pace. So the raven had to keep stopping on rooftops and waiting for the catch up, hopping about and letting out impatient squalls as it did so.

Clicking claws on clay. Somewhere behind her, then ahead. A raspy squawk. Silk stopped walking and glanced up at the roofline. There she saw a black tyrant with wings and lungs full of attitude. Silk had always liked ravens, crows and magpies. Most thieves did. They were crooked, clever bastards. Natural born pickpockets.

Silk clicked her tongue. “You want shine, crow-king?" The thief dug in her pockets, fingers brushing coins, a piece of chalk and a single chicken bone she’d been saving for no good reason. Maybe for him. Maybe not. She dug around until she felt the opal ring. She held it up for the rooftops to see. With a flick of her wrist, the ring arced through the air with a spin.

The city was starting to wake up now, just barely. A clatter of shutters. Somewhere, a drunk had remembered he was still alive and was loudly regretting it. Ravens were smart. Tricksters. Shiny-eyed liars that saw everything. They didn’t care if you lived or died. They’d take your last breath if it glinted just right. Thieves respected that. Ravens were being true to what they were; opportunists. They didn’t pretend to be noble. They didn’t pretend to care. They just waited. Watched. Took.

@Leyik

The ring, tossed in offering, glinted in the moonslight. With a whip of black feathers and a whirl of air, the raven descended from its roof tile throne. It twisted and dove to snatch the shiny thing before it fell. Rose up with draft from the alley, before hopping one-legged to a stop some ways in front of the girl-thief. The ring was clutched in its other claw.

Curious, the raven tapped its beak against silver and opal. It took the ring out of its maw long enough to peered at the prize with one glassy blue eye, shaking its head feathers out into a puffy mane as it did so.

"Not yours," it croaked in the common tongue. The ring clattered against cobblestone. The raven had dropped it with sudden disinterest. "No marrow!"

More hops took the great bird around the thief. Wings half raised, it snapped its beak once at the heavy spot in the thief's clothes. Begging like some domestic pet.

"Something else... in your pocket?" It crooned with a funny lilt to its beaky voice.

In some unseen alley, there came a wretching groan, and a splat like a slop bucket tipped over. The drunk losing the last dregs of his evening.

“Not Yours, No marrow,” it croaked, before hurling the thing away like it was filth. "That is true, I own nothing." Silk smirked, one eye still on the bird as it circled her like it owned the place.

The thief crouched slowly, coat brushing the wet cobblestone. The stink of the alley curling up around her, sour piss, spoiled meat, rot under stone. Somewhere nearby, someone groaned their guts into the gutter. Drunk or dying? Or both?
“Sharp eyes, aren’t you?” she murmured, voice low, half amused.

She dipped her slender hand into her coat pocket, past the useful things and the dangerous things. She closed her fingers around something smooth. Out came the chicken bone, stripped clean but not cracked. She’d been saving it. Not for hunger. Not for throwing. Just… keeping it.

“For someone special,” she said, and held it out on her open palm. “Guess that’s you tonight.” It was just dry, yellowed bone, cracked faintly where her teeth had once tested it. She’d meant to toss it. Or maybe bury it. But something about it had kept her holding on. Sentiment was a liar, but it had long fingers.

Oh, joyous day! At the sight of the half-chewed bone, the raven clicked and rumbled out its delight. It was the kind of call ravens only made when they thought no one but their own kin was listening to them, warm and echoing. Carefully, measuring the approach first with one eye then the other, the raven set its beak around the bone. It tongued the gift into place, and lifted it from the thief's open palm with nary a scratch nor pinch.

Raising its gullet up to the sky, the raven gave two curious snaps, the cracks on the bone fraying a little further. Yes, the gift rang true. The chicken bone was full of marrow, and the marrow still remembered the cook fire that had licked at it, the teeth that had tried to scrape it clean.

That was the one thing that human-ish people had on birds. Teeth were so nice for just this sort of thing. The thought of teeth overwhelmed the raven, and because it was not a raven at all, the thought became change.

It happened quickly, like seeing something familiar in the corner of your eye, only to realize later that it had been another thing entirely. A coat rack turned into a dark silhouette, or a cat in the kitchen that wasn't yours. The transformation must have looked like something, but the raven had never seen it before and didn't think much of it. One moment she was herself, and the next moment she was herself, with teeth.

The raven, now girl, had round black eyes and a narrow face. She was dressed like a milk maid from somewhere very far away. High-waisted skirts were embroidered with blocky patterns in black and blue, and a cloak stitched thick with glossy black feathers draped across her shoulders. It looked too heavy for the weather.

The pocked texture of the bone felt good, clacking and tapping between her teeth. But she held herself back from the final crunch. A gift like this one could not be hoarded alone. It was bad luck.

The raven-girl, held the bone back out to the thief. It was gripped tightly between thumb and forefinger, and trying to tug it loose would certainly break it.

"Make a wish with me!" She exclaimed in a perfectly normal girl-voice, sweetly unaware that this was not a wishbone. "For something special!"