"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.