Sylvie only had time enough to wonder if this would be how she died: undignified, in the dirt, at the paws of a damn cat. Which was when suddenly – and mercifully – the cat was hauled bodily off of her. A sudden relief washed through her as she righted herself, flapping her wings and ruffling her feathers as she peered up to see how exactly it was she’d been spared the indignity of being harmed by a cat. And – oh. It was Llewellyn.
She hadn’t intended to get off on the wrong foot with him. It was only that she was incredibly curious about Aurellian religion, and her interest got the best of her better judgement. She stood unnaturally still for a bird for a moment, indecisive. Really, she ought to let well enough along and wing off to find somewhere else to turn back. But she wasn’t entirely convinced she could get back in the air again without turning before she meant to, and didn’t relish the idea of dropping to the ground mid-flight. Well. Nothing for it, then. She’d just have to hope she wouldn’t inadvertently offend him further. Or start Chouette into doing further injury.
With one last chirp and a flutter of her wings, she bent her attention to turning herself back. The bird seemed to shiver for a moment, as she gave a concentrated mental push, and then Sylvie was there in its stead, seated in the dirt. She was barefoot, wearing a sleeveless dress and a sheepish expression. “Sorry – oh,” her apology was forestalled for a moment as she winced, a hand going to her head as her eyes shut against a wave of vertigo. “...damn cat. I hope I didn't startle you.”