Book 7. Chapter 12: Aggressive negotiations
The Odin ahead of me were speechless.
Well, specifically Rashant was. The poor translator just stared at me gobsmacked. Then there was some croaking from Septimus, likely asking what the delay was. The entire setup was a little comical if I stopped to think about it.
Three birds - which I’d been convinced for half my life didn’t exist, and who were equally convinced I didn’t exist - were sitting on a perch with a small hand-sized screen slate balancing on the side with a fourth bird through the screen.
The general of the Odin, or at least some kind of authority figure that organized things.
He certainly looked the part. A few white feathers, quite a lot of silken looking threads of multiple colors all interwoven into the wings, and what looked to be a silly looking black and gold mask on the bird’s head that fit both eyes and part of his beak. Rounding out the look was long needle-like spikes going upwards affixed on his tail making it look like there was a small stylized sun behind him.
Rashant looked far more down to earth like Kres did, with a flak vest of some kind that held pockets, and other hooks for gear to attach, though none of the gear Kres himself had carried. And the two escorts next to him looked more like soldiers with some kind of metal rod strapped on their wingtips, along with long twin feathers at their tails. Which were probably cosmetic of some kind given the vibrant red.
Like the stoic soldiers to the side, Septimus himself also didn’t make any open movements when he finally heard the news.
“Explain.” Septimus asked, and oddly enough, I had a feeling the poor translator was absolutely appalled at having to take this kind of tone. The little crow looked genuinely terrified to be perched where it was.
“Its name is Bob. And while I was traveling through the deadlands, I found a way to speak to it.” I said, hand tapping my heart absentmindedly, realizing the birds probably wouldn’t understand that surface dweller lingo.