The moldable self rearranges the feathers and fluff into an enigmatic villain as a clawed foot-black boot crosses the threshold of the little cafe.
Crumbs spattering the floor show the remains of a successful day. Stalking past empty tables, worn out sofas, and empty trays, Magpie reaches a small dusty storage room.
With a violent grab and pull, bags of root vegetables and legumes are thrown aside, revealing a dirt covered wooden slat floor.
Claws dig in to the corner of a particularly warbled piece of wood, while wriggling fingers pry twist at the smallest of the many knots.
With a groaning impressive to even to the most vocal of elder arthritic men, the dark circle twists. Angry muscles and wood together twitch as the knot is smashed down and the corner of the plank lifted up.
Magpie is greeted with a triumphant click as he falls backwards in an unceremonious mound of feathers and cloak, coming to lie among potatoes and turnips and rutabaga.
With much shuffling, Magpie regains a crouching position. With a bird-like hop, he comes back to face the square of floor.
Excited scrabbling can be heard from through the floor now, much like a dog tying to reach his owner. The stench of something wrong is vaguely smelt, like when one’s socks are worn when still wet.
Maggie chuckles in the the back of his throat as a malicious glint sparks in his spinel eyes. A sly grin sweeps across his face before returning his lips to neutral.
A great leap places Magpie on top of where the floor once was. The trapdoor now swings downward from his weight, throwing aside the human figure beneath it with a violence to which the root vegetables would relate if they could.
Magpie triumphantly sails downward and lands in a crouch, not unlike Silnarion’s temple exhibition.
A rock attached to a chain attached to the trap door falls to the ground without Magpie’s counterbalancing force, plunging the hidden room into complete darkness.
Lighting a flint, Magpie illuminates nothing but himself. The spark of fire reflects in only the wet, shiny eyes of the living.
Although he remains still himself, rustling surrounds him. Creaking and groaning of bones and dried flesh resounds in the cavernous space.
Deep beneath the cafe lies the cage in which the dead ones wait.
