Wilbur watching the villagers
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Wilbur sat atop a whimsy tree. His legs dangling dangerous off the edge of its crimson branches.
Below him lay a battlefield for that he mustn't partake in. For he wasn't a worrier, but a feeble man caught up in the trees.
He climbs higher in an attempt to get away from the battlefield. His brown hair falling ever so slightly over his right eye and his delicate wings flapping to keep him upright.
Soon he's sitting on the calmest branch and looking down on the battlefield. His short-ish hair flows in the winds and his coat set atop him from his father fighting down below flows behind him as he stands on that branch looking down.
He opens his not-so-fully-grown wings and lifts himself above the fighters. He rises above the trees caked in red which shelter bodies as big as a bore.
He just make out his father slash a man in a red coat next to his companion which he never seems to leave without.
Wilbur's feet turn to claws as he shrinks, skin to beautiful black feathers and mouth pointed into a beak. His arms wrap around his body before disappearing into the mass of heathers.
He continues to fly away, back to the cabin on the outskirts of a town. Where a child collects berries for a good afternoon snack.
He lands atop the shoulder of said child. Chirping a greeting. The child pets the crow, "hey Wilbur."
The crow squawks back. The child, featherless, still family to the crow.
It watches the boy, his green tattered clothing the only thing keeping the boy warm in the cold august wings.
The crow pecks the boys ear, a warning? No, "Wilbur stop, that hurts." The boy said.
"Tubbo!" A boy, a feet taller then the boy and waring a thin red coat, shouts from their right.
The crow flaps his wings and soon he left the screen, faint shouts of "Tommy" Bering heard but never mentioned.
The bird flies into the the open window and perches atop the perch on Said windowsill. His body shouts of danger but he ignores it, opting to watch the boys play and pick berries.
The bird watches and listens to the village boys like a parent.
There is no point to this story he knows. No plot or force.
He is only a knowing crow. Pet to the wisest of men and the kindest of humans.
The crow takes flight once more to embark on a trail not foreign to him. Flying on a trail where a battle commences and his owner stays waiting for him. With stories of children trade in for stories of battle.
For now the black bird flaps it's wings far for he knows he doesn't have much time for the sun to set and his owner to set off to bed.
His only hope is to be treated as human once more.
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Some of you might have noticed that my schedule has been lacking. To Be totally honest I've lost much of my motivation. To those who want I do allow you to steal any of my oneshots and turn it into a story, you can also request for something.
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