[Semi-Open] Eating Crow

[maltesefalcon]

Who: Cerrit Agrupnin and People that Should Know
What: Little Talks about a Big Deal
When: Backdated late August up until Dahlia's Gala
Where: Wherever Talks Happen
Warning(s): None yet


Cerrit's secret has been eating at him, and now it's time to let it out. If you work closely with him as an Enforcer or a member of the militia, or if you're good friends with Cerrit and you don't know about his deal with Aster yet, sometime in late August (post-Blight) or early September he's going to invite you for a private conversation.

The means may vary, the context may vary, but he has some things he needs to say.

Comments

OPEN PROMPT - Skin and bones, and brains and blood (and CWs pertaining thereto)

[maltesefalcon]

After all his conversations (but perhaps especially the one with CT and the talk with Sherlock Holmes at the visitor center), Cerrit has a certain frustrated tension in him. Part of him wants to find a fight to pick, but there are more productive forms of bloodletting right now. He's a predator, and he is a hunter, after all.

Cerrit is not wearing any clothes today (but don't worry, he's fully fledged and doesn't have anything to show), nor is he carrying his hatchets. Instead, when he swoops down on a deer from high trees in the forest, it's just beak and talons and his body weight that take the beast down.

For better or worse, he is not the only person in the woods, when this happens, though. What do, when Big Bird Goes Swoop?

[hate_gettin_older]

No one else is immediately visible -- at least not to the average human -- but when Big Bird Goes Swoop, there's a wholly involuntary startled yelp from some nearby shrubbery.

[maltesefalcon]

"Ah, did I just steal your kill? I can share some of the meat; I wasn't going to eat it all out here anyway." It talks! In a smooth Travis Willingham voice! While tucking its wings back politely, and making itself look less like an overt threat!

[hate_gettin_older]

Edgar emerges from the undergrowth, hands out and open in plain view, in his own attempt to look less like a threat.

"No, it's fine," he says, voice remarkably steady under the circumstances, "wasn't actually planning to kill it, just practicing getting close enough to."

[maltesefalcon]

"Relax, kid. I'm an Enforcer in town, you're not in any danger from me." The use of the word 'kid' here not to indicate that he sees Edgar as a baby goat, but instead that he's being casual and treating him like a person. To be honest, they're likely pretty similar in chronological age.

[hate_gettin_older]

The word Enforcer does not appear to have a relaxing effect; the opposite, if anything. His hands come down, but there's a faint stiffness about them, as though his body if not his brain is half expecting a fight.

"Well," he says, "like I said, wasn't mine."

[maltesefalcon]

Cerrit notices the increase in tension, head tilting to one side. That doesn't seem to bode well.

"Do you want any of the excess meat?"

[hate_gettin_older]

... well, now he's just confused. But possibly in a good way?

"I mean," cautiously, "if you're offering?"

[maltesefalcon]

"Yes? There's plenty here. I can spare a leg." Of course, he's going to remove said leg with beak and talons. It's not a dainty process.

[hate_gettin_older]

Another pause.

(There is a recalculation of categories going on in Edgar's head, not quite consciously.)

"Yeah, all right then. Thanks." His body language is still a little stiff, but it's mostly residual. "Can I help take it apart? Been learning how to do that."

[maltesefalcon]

"Got a knife on you? Sure, c'mon over."

Cerrit tucks his wings back, sidles over to allow Edgar access to the carcass.

"Just don't mangle the heart, that's my favorite part."

[hate_gettin_older]

He approaches the carcass, shifting to the side opposite the -- man? bird? bird-man? -- and crouching to examine it. Yes, he's got a knife, but he hasn't taken it out yet.

"Right, open it up first or skin it first?"

[maltesefalcon]

"Do you have a good use for the skin? If you want to preserve it, take it off first and set it aside. You could also break the antlers off, see if the blacksmiths want them for knife handles or the like."

Cerrit's mannerisms are giving bird, but his anatomy is all man. It's a delightful contradiction.

[lightconductor]

Watson might have known Cerrit was there (and there's nothing quite like accompanying someone in the midst of a Nudist Mood to make him feel overdressed, he is finding) but it's still something of a shock to witness. Some part of him, some bit of primate brain structure that still recalls what it is to be hunted across the savanna, is suddenly keenly aware that he is in the presence of a predator of an entirely different class than his own species.

He swallows hard, and then grins as he hurries through the trees to catch up. Cerrit certainly doesn't need any of his help, but he should still be there. Just in case. Because.

[maltesefalcon]

"Do you want me to try to preserve the hide?" Cerrit's movement is much less in line with 'I am pretending to be a human' right now, leaning over his kill with his beak at the neck of the carcass. He'll drain the blood and work on disassembly, though certain prize bits will be eaten here in the field.

Even Aster's dinner didn't put him off fresh, raw hearts.

[lightconductor]

He even moves differently. What a fascinating discovery to make. Watson takes a moment to commit this scene to memory in some way. Later, he'll need to work out some good adjectives for everything.

"You could certainly find someone who would be able to make use of it if you did," he says. "I don't think I'm one of them, though, if you mean me in particular. It's all the same to me."

[maltesefalcon]

Cerrit glances back to offer a nod of understanding before he tears the throat of the deer out, allowing blood to drain.

"There'll be plenty to bring home, but there's a few parts I prefer as fresh as possible. You don't mind?"

[lightconductor]

"It would be rather poor behaviour for me to invite myself along and then object," Watson points out, wry. "Or so it seems to me. Go ahead, love."

There is certainly still a strangeness to the situation. He can't deny that. At the same time, perhaps the strangeness helps. It has occurred to him that he would probably be a lot less okay with this if Cerrit were human. He's not sure what to think about that.

[maltesefalcon]

"I mean, you're welcome to join me in the choice bits, but I'm not intending to cook them."

And those are the last words from him for a few minutes as he works with beak and talons to make what was once an animal into meat and organs and bones. Perhaps someone will find use in that last. He'll worry about that once he's snapped up the heart.

[lightconductor]

"I think I'll stick with just the raw oysters, if it's all the same to you."

Watson settles in at what seems an appropriate (safe? polite?) distance away, and lights a cigarette. He has little practical experience with butchery (a distinct, if parallel art to that of surgery) and his knowledge of anatomy is certainly weighted towards human or perhaps small game birds, but if nothing else, that makes it something new.

So he smokes, and he watches in relative silence.

"What are your choice bits? Aside from the heart, I mean."

[maltesefalcon]

"Liver, shank. Cheeks. The cheeks are a pain in the ass for people to cook; they tend to go for a low, slow braise to break down the connective tissue. I like picking them apart, though. We can cook the rest together, though. There's going to be plenty. Loin, ribs, shoulder, flank, neck..."

He glances up, crest lifting. It's like he's a kid in a candy shop right now.

[lightconductor]

Watson grins. He can't help it. He's very prone to catching other people's good moods.

"I'm afraid humans don't quite have the teeth to handle some of those tougher cuts raw," he says, "even if I wanted to. That's what stew is for, I'm afraid. Now, the tenderloin, that's a lovely cut of meat."

[maltesefalcon]

"I've got it here, if you want to wrap it up to bring home. The ribs, I might donate to John Rambo's ranch. He strikes me as someone who can cook a double-rack of ribs and feed his people for a few days. Rump and shoulder are ours..."

He's literally beginning to divvy up the remains, working out how he's planning to carry them all.

[lightconductor]

"Ah, you spoil me," Watson says, exhaling smoke. He wanders a little closer to look more intently at Cerrit's work. "And I daresay that they'll appreciate the gift, as well."

It's very easy to enjoy that sense of community. Watson puts out his cigarette, carefully, and flicks it away.

"Where would a second pair of hands be most useful?"

[maltesefalcon]

"Wrapping the meat that's off the carcass for carrying home. I can pass you the meat as I take it off." At least he knows Watson's not squeamish about touching muscle and sinew.