The Ravenmaster looked pleadingly around at the group, most of whom had the self-awareness to look embarrassed. The Woodstrider just tested the edge of her axe with her thumb.

"Well, he can't go back yet, clearly," Trashscarf said. "And we're not going to kill him, please, Woodstrider, put that down-- thank you. Now, the birds are a problem-- what's left of them, anyway-- but if the clouds are the birds' problem, then the clouds are our problem too."

"Can you talk to the birds?" Garbleday asked the Ravenmaster hopefully. "Can you tell them not to attack people?"

"I can train them, but I can't talk to them directly," the Ravenmaster said apologetically.

"Can you talk to animals?" Offswitch asked the Woodstrider.

"I can sort of, sometimes," admitted the Woodstrider. "Learned it from a druid. But these aren't normal wild birds; I tried before and they don't listen."

"Well, they're city birds," Trashscarf said, "They're practically city spirits, if they're a bit magic. Now, I can't talk to wild animals, but I still remember a bit of urban druidry! I could probably talk to them, I can talk to most things, but I can't understand them."

"So if you can talk, and she can understand," Garbleday pointed out, "Then you could work together and talk to them? With his help, I mean?" He included the Ravenmaster with a gesture.

The Ravenmaster looked hopeful. "It might just work!"

They would have to wait until morning, of course-- the birds were indeed completely out of sorts in the darkness, and furious at the loss of some of their flock. The crows filled the night with raucous complaints as they crashed back to unseen roosts.

In the barracks, after some discussion and argument, Offswitch and Woodstrider settled down to eat the rest of the Ravenmaster's leftovers, and Garbleday and Trashscarf crept out into the night to go looking for the Catterpillow.

"I hope it's all right," Garbleday said, pushing his way through the wilting undergrowth. "It sounded like it crashed pretty hard."

"We didn't hear it complaining, or meowing or whatever," Trashscarf said reassuringly, raising his lantern as they looked around.

They found the site of impact; a large area of smashed saplings and shrubs, frosted with silvery fluff. But the damage then romped off away from the tower, leaving a trail like the track of a rolling boulder to follow.

After a short distance along the track of the Catterpillow, Trashscarf paused and sniffed the air. "Smell that?"

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Garbleday sniffed suspiciously, got a mosquito up his nose, and snorted a bit, but then said, "Smells like water?"

"Indeed-- the river Feraflumen, I believe," Trashscarf said, peering down through the darkness to where a bit of moving silver reflected in the moonlight. "That'll be it. Catterpillows love the water-- it'll have gone swimming."

"Mrrp? Hey, Mrrp?" Garbleday tried calling, putting the upturned accent on the name they'd settled on.

"Psppspspss, here hybrid-mutant-abomination-kitty-thing!" Trashscarf cooed into the darkness. But the night remained full of bugs and dripping, distant crows, dispirited frogs, and lack of any giant fluffy monsters pouncing out of nowhere.

"Do you think it's all right?" Garbleday fretted, starting forward, but Trashscarf caught his arm kindly.

"I'm sure it's fine, and having a good time, wherever it is," Trashscarf said comfortingly. "Probably fishing. Look, I told you they get distracted easily. It's probably moved on, thank goodness, and it can go pounce on someone else."

"But--"

"It showed up unbidden, it's moved on, we are not responsible for it and certainly not liable for any damages it's caused," the Waywalker insisted. "Let's go back to the tower and the others."

"What if it wants to find us and it can't? What if it got hurt in the fall, or--"

"You've got a good heart, lad," Trashscarf chuckled, "And it will probably get you killed one of these days. Come on--"

They returned to the tower just in time to get a bowlful of stew each, as Offswitch and Woodstrider were already nodding off, listening to the Ravenmaster. The old man had been on his own with no audience but crows for a long time, and he had years of fascinating observational data to share.

"--demonstrate what is known as 'fission-fusion dynamics,' which is a level of complexity that is, shall we say, somewhat comparable to human societies. They congregate in large numbers at food sources and then disperse into smaller groups. These groups aren’t just random, you see. They follow strict social hierarchies and communication plays a key role in maintaining-- Oh! You're back!" The Ravenmaster, who had been sharing Offswitch's flask of kobold whiskey, beamed pink-cheeked at Trashscarf and Garbleday as they stumbled back into light and warmth.

"Thank gods," muttered Woodstrider, allowing herself to fall over with the woodpile for a pillow, and start snoring.

"Any luck?" Offswitch asked, yawning.

"Well, depends on how you define 'luck'," said Trashscarf. "Mrrp? seems to have gone on a sidequest, and I'm sure we wish it all the best in its new endeavors."

"Yes, well," the Ravenmaster huffed. "Good riddance. That sort of predator is totally out of the ordinary cycle of life in these parts. It's unnatural, I tell you."

"Well sure it is," Offswitch yawned. "But isn't everything? The Murk and stuff-- heck, all of us. Even you, right? Natural isn't the same as unchanging."

"Change is the only constant," Trashscarf agreed.

Garbleday looked crestfallen at the Ravenmaster's dismissal of their furry friend, but Trashscarf just grinned and patted him on the back. "Don't worry, we'll find it another time. For now, let's just enjoy the warmth and safety of this tower."

As they settled in for the night, Garbleday couldn't help but feel a twinge of sadness for the Catterpillow they had lost. He wondered where it was now, and if it was really okay. But Trashscarf's words rang in his head--they weren't responsible for it.

"I am, though," Garbleday said to himself, stubbornly, quietly. "Mrrp? is my friend. And I'm it's friend. I care, even if no one else does."

He snuggled down into the fishy-froggy-smelling blankets (The Ravenmaster fed his carnivorus charges with whatever he could pull out of the local ponds and river, and the birds were not fussy) and finally fell into a fretful slumber.