fandomtownies | The Park, Saturday Evening

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The Park, Saturday Evening

Warren had decided sometime in the afternoon, once Kayla and Nommy had gotten bored with teasing their poor parents and had decided to explore the island on their own for a bit, that he needed air. And, really, what better way to get air than by getting into the air? He'd spent a few hours just soaring, taking a little while to just appreciate the sky, before coming down to rest in the park.

He and the flamingoes had a rocky history behind them, but he figured he'd probably be safe if he didn't look too closely at them. And he didn't have any coffee with him either, just in case.

[Expecting one in particular, but the park is open otherwise!]

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The flamingoes were having a rough day. They seemed to be edging away from one corner of the duck pond, where ... the ducks also were having a rough day.

There was one bi ~~cre~~ ... being who was ~~sta~~ ~~sit~~ existing in the middle of those ducks, and making odd noises at them. The noise was somewhere between a coo, a purr, and the sound made by third-graders who try to learn how to roll their Rs properly in Spanish class.

Every time the -- okay, the being appeared to be a ball of feathers, smaller than a volleyball but larger than a grapefruit -- got near the ducks, they backed away, quacking louder and louder. It was like they thought she was ominous or something.

Yes, she. The ball of feathers totally had a gender. Didn't you know?

Nope. Warren could honestly say he had no idea what was going on here. He was vaguely aware that trying to rescue Fandom's local wildlife had landed him in some pretty precarious situations in the past, but this time, just this once, he figured maybe it would be best to find out what was going on.

Call it a hunch. Or maybe a sort of creeping dread. Either way, that feeling didn't change all that much as he stepped toward the duck protesting that was going on over there near the water.

"... What in the world?"

Was that a feather duster? Or a tribble?

Oh! OH!

The not-a-feather-duster-or-tribble-but-good-try-Warren was now ceasing in her pursuit of the ducks in order to zip excitedly over to Warren, and rub encouragingly against his shoes. She was making the cooing-and-purring noise again, this time in a burble that suggested she was very, very happy to see Warren and might never leave his shoes again.

The faint bit of slobber on the shoes probably helped with that impression.

There seemed to be an entire conversation going on with this trill, what with the variations in ups and downs. Perhaps Warren's shoes needed to hear her life story. A great deal of that might involve duckicide.

Oh dear god.

There was a ball of feathers slobbering on his shoes. While chattering at them. Lovingly. And he had no idea was was going on. And so, being Warren (and deciding to let the ducks have a bit of a break), he did the one thing that he could do.

"Uh... hi there?"

He wasn't ... happy to see her?

That made the ball of feathers sad. So very sad.

Could Warren see how sad she was? She was going to trill-coo-purr onto his shoes, and slobber, but it was little downward lilts. Sad, sad, sad ones.

His shoes didn't love her. He didn't love her. Nothing loved her. It was hard being a ball of feathers in a lonely duck pond.

She was still nuzzling his shoes, but half-heartedly, like maybe he would change his mind and like her again. Please?

And now he'd gone and made the happy ball of feathers into a sad ball of feathers, and so help Warren, he was feeling pretty guilty for that one.

He kind of frowned for a moment, and then relented again, crouching over to pick up the little... thing...

"Hey. Hey, there. I'm sorry, it's okay..."

It would never be okay again.

Oh oh oh happy noises again! Trills and singing and -- yeah she was definitely either oozing onto him or trying to lick him or possibly slobbering. Maybe all three! Life was exciting when you were molested by wild balls of feathers in duck ponds.

The ball of feathers was coo-trill-purr-ing happily against Warren's fingers, nuzzling them and vibrating with joy. Let's just hope that's joy, Warren. Let's just hope.

Warren was hoping. Oh god was Warren ever hoping.

"So, uh, what were you doing over there to those ducks, huh?"

Casual conversation. Casual conversation with a mutant feather-duster.

As you do.

There was a ... hint of hesitation, there. The ball of feathers was just, you know. Hanging out with the ducks. Getting to know them. Nothing, why?

And an extra nuzzle of Warren's fingers to remind him that she liked him and he was totally safe and he still liked her, right? Okay, then. Because sometimes people got weird about things like 'it looked like you just ate that duck.'

Warren looked momentarily dubious, but it was difficult to stay angry at a... thing... when it was being cuddly like that.

"Well... Maybe we can go for a walk or something, instead," he offered, watching the way the ducks were still warily eyeing the pair of them, and not particularly liking that glint in their beady little stares. "See if we can find something more constructive to do?"

Like, maybe not eat the residents of the duck pond?

Okay, technically Pluma (yes she had a name, everything had a name) didn't eat the ducks. It just looked like she did. She just, you know. Absorbed them. And then gave them back after she nicked a few feathers and nutrients off the top. Totally harmless if a little traumatizing.

... mostly harmless. More or less. She wasn't entirely sure on that point, but, you know. Ball of feathers, here.

She chirruped happily at Warren, then wriggled her little feathers, hovering an inch or two over his palm. She got her bearings, and then fluttered up, up, up to find a nice perch among his feathers.

He had the superbest feathers. She was going to nuzzle into them and coo-purr-trill some more.

... there was going to be more slobber, Warren. Just FYI.

It took a concentrated effort for Warren to keep from shuddering as drool soaked through his feathers. What was this thing?

"... Comfortable there?"

It seemed... really, really happy. To be there. With his wings. The little... feathery...

... Featherball...

Thingie.

She may nest there forever! Safe at home in his feathers. She crooned happily to herself, nudging the feathers around with a sigh. She was possibly the most blissful drooly ball of sentient feathers ever.

Not that there was much competition for that title.

Okay, maybe she was absorbing a stray feather here or there, but just ones he had already shed that were trapped in his wings. She promised. She was being so good for him. See?

... Warren supposed that was some sort of affirmative.

"Well... then I guess you can stay. Do you want to go for a walk? I was just about to head back to the dorms."

Lies. But he couldn't exactly fly with the featherball there.

At that, Pluma lifted her self from his wings and hovered back around into view.

Back? Why walk? She could bundle here against him and hold on and then -- here, she'd flutter her little wings! It wouldn't get them off the ground -- she could barely get herself off the ground for more than a few seconds -- but really. Walk? That sounded silly.

Warren had the sneaking suspicion that he was being told off by a flying featherball.

"Or we could fly. Flying is good, too. I happen to be a huge fan of flying, actually."

For reasons unknown!

This was the happiest burble yet! Flying! They would go flying! Yayyyy!

He was the bestest Daddy ever and they could go flying and then she'd make a nest from his feathers and maybe eat a few but just ones that had already come off. And then she'd grow big and strong. Just like a good little Pluma.

"And I guess that's a yes," Warren chuckled.

... So help him, the featherball was kind of endearing.

"Are you ready, then?"

He spread his wings.

Oh, was she ever! Wheeeeeeeeeee! Going flying with Mommy and Daddy was the best thing ever and that was why they were totally going to survive if she ever happened to end he world and burn everything down.

She wasn't planning on it but it was an option in the back of her mind. Not yet. Just, you know, eventually. If she ever got strong enough.

You could build up a lot of rage being a shapeless feather-ball in a world of people who didn't speak feather. Just saying.

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The Park, Saturday Evening

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