The rain had become a steady shower, but beneath the boughs of the tree where the two of them sat on a blanket, it was still dry. The bird thing continued to wheel silently overhead, connected to the spell at the base of the tree by a thin, wavering green thread of light that glowed faintly against the darkened sky.

"It's been an hour, and it's still circling perfectly," Numair remarked. He was sitting with his knees up, bracing his notebook on them and taking notes. Hawk half-laid against the trunk of the tree, head pillowed on his arms and his wings half-unfurled among the roots. The picnic basket sat open to Numair's right, neatly packed, except for a smallish bottle that was poking out of it. "Theoretically, the gyroscopic head will keep it circling even in worse weather than this. It's an elegant solution. I'm glad you mentioned how chickens can keep their heads steady, or I wouldn't have considered it. Good idea," he added.

"Aah," was all Hawk responded with. Numair stole a look at him.

"Would it hurt you very much to accept a compliment?" he said, somewhat teasingly.

"Yep," Hawk said, without missing a beat. "I'm allergic."

Numair gave a little huff but left it at that. After a brief silence, Hawk spoke again, this time less breezily.

"I do got a kind of, uh, egotistical-type question," he said, "if you'd humor me."

"Oh?" Numair asked, tucking his pen into the notebook and setting it aside on the blanket. He picked up an empty stemless glass and the bottle from the basket instead. "Go on, then."

"When you look at me, what d'you see?"

Numair was halfway to pouring some of the contents of the bottle into the glass, but he looked over with some surprise. "Hm? In what sense?"

"Wull, you know," Hawk waved a hand, "in terms of you, uh, seein' emotions. I just wondered what I make you see."

"Ah," Numair said. He poured himself a glass of some dark liquid and raised it to his lips. "I see a storm."