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[Nh'bdy]

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An inverted lifeless corpse dangles from the ramparts of Blackthorn's former residence. Swaying gently with the shifting winds, it's garb is paltry at best. A shredded and stained shirt, the collar of white shows tell tale signs of scorching, the stains appear to have small triangular piercings, accented with the maroon flooding of a ventilated body. Unlike most mantle-pieces, no signs of aerial scavenger's feedings are noticeable. If a more observant person were to spend an evening watching the swaying, the occasional rogue
bird would make for the feast, to instantly be pursued and violently attacked by the militia that had assembled some days ago. Ponderous, their ranks seem to have swelled, the song more refined with a regiment of training and repetition. The centurions begin to resemble their prize, blood covered beaks and plumage speak of the enlisted time of the elder members of the tribunal. The stench of decay begins to surmount an assault on the castle, this too, speaks of the corpse's furlough
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Work in Progress.
"What do you call a fish with four legs? A stool pidgeon! Bwuagh bwuagh bwuagh bwguagh!"
~Malorn