You burst into your chambers, slamming the wooden door shut. You wanted to kick, to scream, to cry. Father is forcing you to marry. And you understandably don't want to.

You sit at your desk, staring at your crying form in the mirror, you hate this. You take your quill out, wanting to write your messy feelings into your journal. But drat! The quill broke! To hell with this life!

"May I be of asistence, my sweet?"

A familiar voice speaks, perched on your window, he tears a black feather from his wing, offering it to you.