21st June, 1890 — Dempsey Estate, Ireland

It was decided. Today was the day it was happening; there was no sense in stalling for much longer. She’d finished the poems she’d wanted to in case she died today; she and the cursebreakers and the Ministry and Mr. Fisk had done all the research they possibly could; if this didn’t work now then hopefully she would die, because being a wren for the rest of her life was no longer looking as entertaining as it once had. (One too many encounters with wildlife who wanted to eat her.)

Still, Porphyria was as hopeful as she could be, and in case the one chance she had went terribly wrong she had decided to throw all but the kitchen sink at the situation in the hope that, all factors combined, the curse would decide to get lost. She had waited until the summer solstice; she had set herself up in a crumbling stone shed outside in their grounds, in case the Pictish curse felt more at home out here: close to the earth, with a little space, away from all modernity. If she died today, at least it would be under a good sky. She would have to be content with that.

The upside was that if she turned into some feathered, beaked monstrosity, then she could slink off into the forest for good and become the next Irish legend of folklore.

“Well, wish me a happy untransfiguration,” Phyri chirped - either to ease the tension, or to add to it - as she perched on the paneless shed window, the cursebreaker, the spell and the comb waiting for her in there.

---

Invitational! Arven Fisk and/or Justin Ross, anyone involved in cursebreaking, or any friends for moral support!~

  

---

a sublime set by Lady! <3

Over the last few months, Arven had returned to the Dempsey Estate a number of times with new scraps of research, theories both grandiose and mundane, scribbled findings, and news from his correspondents. But sometimes his visits had little to no solid purpose; and they were simply two eclectic writers humouring a friendship that some might deem inappropriate.

Then at last there had been a promising theory from a sanguine cursebreaker, and the theory was logical enough for both Arven and Miss Dempsey herself to deem it worth trying. And so the tall wanderer stood outside the dilapidated stone shed where an attempt would be made, leaning lightly against a tree and watching the wren carefully. He'd been in her company enough now to know when she was tense.

Well, not tense exactly... but more devil may care. He knew, for Miss Dempsey, that enough was enough, and something, anything, had to be done.

"Good luck, feathers", he quipped wryly from where he observed.

  

---

Porphyria let out a last laugh, grateful for Mr. Fisk’s company, not for the first time in this wild last couple of months. Whoever had known she would have such a strange adventure in her own back garden?

“See you on the other side,” she chirped, and hopped inside where the scene was all set for the Untransfiguration. With a ruffle of her feathers and one last nod, perched with her wren-feet on the Comb itself, she waited for the cursebreaker to give it their best try, shutting her eyes against the harsh light from their wand.

Well, this wasn’t death, because she was still in the shed - and it had dramatically changed in perspective since her eyes were last open. A good sign, then. Phyri glanced down at herself. The cursebreaker tossed her a shift and loose set of robes, because apparently she was naked now. And featherless - oh. No, there were feathers, here and there, single ones like large hairs that had grown right out of her skin. Before she got dressed - the poor cursebreaker watched in morbid interest - Porphyria pulled at the base of the brown feather, hard. It came out as easily as any ordinary hair. She tried another of the stray feathers, and it did the same. Hm. She wondered if they’d grow back.

Having pulled the robes on, Porphyria decided she looked exceedingly normal, and she thrust her arm - how unbelievably excellent it was to have arms! - out of the window to wave at Arven. It had been the way she’d come in, so Phyri’s instinct was to leave the shed by it too - only as she hoisted herself up, her limbs rather unused to functioning, she realised that was perhaps not the best way to leave the shed as the human.

Too late. Porphyria fell out of the window onto the grass, all tangled up with herself.

---

  

---

a sublime set by Lady! <3

It was through sheer force of will that Arven had prevented himself, this whole time, from making sure his friend had got the best out of her predicament. She was, after all... a bird. Of course she was hardly a sea eagle that could soar the heavens and skim the oceans, but she could fly nonetheless, exploring worlds that even an adventurer like Arven couldn't begin to envisage. He hoped she'd experienced all that and scrounged at least a few positive memories from her predicament.

But not enough for him to have actually said it outloud. After all, telling a begrudging wren that she was lucky to have wings felt like telling a blind person that they were lucking to have enhanced hearing.

An arm thrust itself out of the window. A robed, waving, human arm. A lopsided smile spread irresistibly across Arven's face, but his expression turned quickly to one of concern (and amusement) as the rest of the human followed suit. Out the window, the lot of her.

The way Miss Dempsey now lay on the grass was reminiscent of a teenager discovering their suddenly elongated mass of limbs. Arven sprang forward, smiling again, arm immediately extended to help her up.

"Almost drowning — done. Shaking off a curse — easy. What's next for the intrepid Porphyria Dempsey?"

  

---

Entirely dazed by the sight of the sky and the feel of the grass on skin, on bare human skin, the sheer size of her and the feel of having a beakless mouth again, Porphyria grinned deliriously. And there was Arven above her, looking far less giant than she had gotten used to him looking; no chance of her perching on a shoulder or a knee now, thank you.

But she took his hand gladly, curling her fingers around his wrist and marvelling at the excellence of having hands again, and not just feet. She had to laugh at his remarks as if the last months of her life had been nothing, his easy air infectious - but even with his help, the moment she hauled herself to her feet and tried to saunter forwards she lost her footing like a newborn foal, her knees apparently unused to bending in human ways. She grabbed on to him again and stuck out an arm, as if were still a wing, for balance.

“Intrepid, I like that,” she exclaimed, and then snorted. “Though I think it might have to be learning to walk again,” she admitted, almost ruefully. “Have you ever gone four months without moving like a human?” (Who knew what had happened to him in his adventures; he had told her some but she was sure they’d barely scratched the surface.)

Still, if walking proved this hard, she was going to miss flitting about more than she’d thought.

---

  

---

a sublime set by Lady! <3

Arven could not help but chuckle at the once-bird's attempts at wingless travel, but it was meant with affection. He placed her hand on his arm, a better handle than random grabbed handfuls of his shirt, content to play the part of stable walking stick. He was quite sure the others present would not approve of physical contact between the two, but Arv, as usual, had little interest in conceding to a flimsy social rulebook.

"No", he admitted when asked if he'd gone so long in a similar state himself. Sure enough, Porphyria (as Miss Dempsey had become known in his head) had just gone through an adventure the likes of which the adventurer had never sampled. "A hag did once turn me into a hedgehog after I stole her collection of bowtruckles, but..." he recalled the palaver vaguely, though it was a bit of a blur. "That only lasted a weekend."

Arven posed a playful question — "So, now that you can compare the two experiences more accurately than most who walk the Earth, which is the better state of being: person or bird?"

  

---

With the aid she was growing steadier on her feet again, though it was a strange feeling, to sink so heavily into the ground. She felt the size of a boulder now, or a giant - though on the one hand it felt slow and ungainly and disappointing, it was pleasing to feel more substantial than she had in months.

She had also never expected to be grateful to have a body. She had grown up hating it, and all the perceptions of dreaded womanhood, but now it felt pleasantly familiar. Like putting on a worn old coat, with well-loved creased at the elbows and perhaps a hole in one of its pockets.

Porphyria was still more grateful to be able to feel a laugh in her cheeks - it had not been the same with a beak and those delicate bones. “Why on earth were you stealing her bowtruckles?” She exclaimed, already imagining the wild context of that story. Before she pressed him further, it appeared Arven had an inquiry of his own.

“Well...” she trilled, because it was not an easy choice. “I will miss the wings.” Flying on a broomstick or carpet had hardly the same effect, and for that reason alone she was jealous of her friend Amelia, for having an avian animagus form. She gave a musing grin. “That said, I shan’t miss being the size of a sickle,” Phyri said seriously. “Nor the threat of being eaten by predators!” She might have been cleverer than most wrens, but she had not caught up to their natural instincts on that note. “Oh! But their vision,” she gasped, blinking back the dullness of the world now, reduced to a pale imitation. That would take some getting used to again. “The world looks like an entirely different place.”

---

  

---

a sublime set by Lady! <3

"She wasn't treating them very grandly", Arven responded darkly, but elaborated no more. He supposed that he hadn't so much as stolen the bowtruckles from the hag as liberated them. And liberty was very much the word of the day as they celebrated Porphyria's escape from the curse, but also mused over the liberation she'd felt when possessed by birdflight.

He knew it would be insensitive to express any kind of jealousy at her having inhabited the life of such a free creature, for she hadn't chosen it. But, like many, Arven did sometimes wish he could soar the clouds as a bird. He wouldn't choose wrenship, though. Hawkship, perhaps.

"Now that you can hold a quill again, I can make a guess at the subject of your next poem", he said with a voice of encouragement and interest. For the poet was already capturing what it was like to view the world with a bird's vision; Arv imagined that such description put to parchment would make for a transporting verse indeed.

  

---

“My next anthology, I suspect,” Phyri admitted brightly, for she had already made some scribblings in the intervening months - oh, Merlin, how excellent it was to have finger and thumb again! - and seeds enough for a good deal more poems, for as long as she could nurture the inspiration. Happy as she was to be changed again, she did worry at how fast the sensation would fade.

But the curse might have lasted forever, if not for Arven’s help. “But never mind the bowtruckles, or the cursebreakers -” she said with a grin, nudging his side with her elbow where she was still clinging to his arm to spare the ungainly calf walking she was accomplishing now. “It’s you I really have to thank for freeing me.” He had not given up on looking for a solution, and had proved himself a true friend in the process - and to be honest Porphyria did not often thank people directly for their help, so he should count this a privilege. “Though it’s almost a pity it didn’t happen to you,” she added, teasing. “I demand to be the one who has to save you from an adventure gone awry next time.” He was the professional adventurer, after all. Surely he could get himself into trouble of some sort!

---

Arven Fisk / Bragi Holm

  

---

a sublime set by Lady! <3

Porphyria's (ironically) buoyant mood was contagious, and the sun felt all the warmer as he chuckled down at her characteristically winsome words of gratitude. Theirs was an odd friendship, truth be told. Not odd within the pairing, as it seemed to come so naturally, but no doubt to the wider world — the black sheep of the Fisk family and the outlandish Dempsey poetess. Perhaps the Witch Weekly had enjoyed some mild speculation before moving on to some more dramatic hearsay focussed on some younger people.

Regardless, Arven was content to find himself in this friendship. He had certainly not been unattracted to her when first they'd met (what adventurer would not be charmed by a flailing water sprite?), but their dynamic had long been solidified as both playful and comfortable, despite their difference in status and gender. It perhaps suited them both that their arrangement was so disrespecting of conformity.

"Then for the sake of our friendship, I hereby promise to be in need of rescue next. So what'll it be, Feathers? Captured by highwaymen in the Highlands? Trapped in an active volcano?"

The following 1 user Likes Arven Fisk's post:1 user Likes Arven Fisk's post
   Porphyria Dempsey

---

She rolled her eyes a touch at Feathers, but - as nicknames went - it was not the worst she had borne and, perhaps more importantly, she was fond enough of Arven Fisk to let him get away with it. So she merely suppressed her grin to nod solemnly at his suggestions, deciding she might have to train up a little before she had the saving-skills to accomplish it.

“Hm, where would this volcano be?” Phyri teased, tilting her head in thought, as if she had already begun her planning, as if the geography made the slightest difference. She would quite like to see a volcano, though. She ought to practise her duelling skills or her revolver-shot for the highwaymen, though.

“And I don’t suppose you’re hungry?” She added hopefully, looking up to the house. A visit to the kitchens would not go awry now that she had hands and feet again, and they could discuss rescue plans over lunch if he liked. “My stomach’s grown a few sizes in the last hour,” she explained, without much shame. “I could use a snack.”

---

  

---

a sublime set by Lady! <3

"I'm sure we can find a volcano somewhere here in Ireland if it's more convenient", he joked, waving a large hand briefly in the direction of the hills, which were resolutely low and green, not craggy and spewing lava.

"Ravenous, now that you mention it", Arven seconded. His reasons for being hungry were different to Porphyria's. When he put his mind to something and devoted himself to an interest, he thought of little else, and forgetting to eat was no uncommon thing.

"I promise not to suggest bird feed for lunch."

  

---

Psht, convenient. Convenience was not a word that ever troubled her, really.

The joke about bird feed, however... She had been grinning at his answer of ravenous, ready to pick up her pace to drag him along in her storming of the house and the pantry, but she elbowed Arven’s roughly in the ribs at that remark, glancing his way with a mock-look of murderousness.

“Mm, you’d better not,” she said entirely magnanimously, wholly teasing, “because I may not be able to peck anyone’s eyes out anymore, but my hands are very capable of forming fists again.”

---

wrap maybe? <3

The following 1 user Likes Porphyria Dempsey's post:1 user Likes Porphyria Dempsey's post
   Bragi Holm

---

a sublime set by Lady! <3