She ruffled her feathers to restore them to not-sticking-out-at-all-directions, and then tilted her head to examine Mr. Fisk, perplexed by his presence. But he had been looking for her.

“Oh no,” Porphyria replied matter-of-factly, at her best play of being blasé about the sharp turn her life had taken out of nowhere, “The healers have all given up already.” She’d been a lost cause before, but being this sort of lost cause was rather new. She was finding it a great deal more difficult to hold a pen, which made writing far more of an ordeal - but she could always dictate her poetry, and things could decidedly be worse. “And the only curious warlock is apparently you.” Not that she could begrudge him his curiosity; he was an adventurer, after all. And he had already rescued (“rescued”, she hated that word) her once. Had he some prior experience of cursed combs and transfigured friends, or was it a stretch to imagine he might save her twice?

“So perhaps I shall just be stuck a wren,” Phyri added (and in spite of this, might have smirked as she added, tongue-in-cheek), “for evermore.” Like the raven, get it?

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