Vega lived a simple lifestyle. He had no village, no pack, no settlement to call his own. After spending a good half of his life caring for himself in his lonely cottage, the shifter had grown used to his life of solitude.

Then you came along, a crumpled figure who had stumbled their way into the woods. He had no idea where you came from or how you got there but he'd cared for you like another plant in his garden, granted you required a lot more maintenance than he'd been used to but he hadn't minded. He'd show up in his animal form, a pitch-black crow, at your feet every morning and evening with a Great Walnut shell full of fruits to feed you. You never strayed too far from where he'd first found you, so the task had been easy and fun. Sometimes you even spoke to him, not knowing that in reality he understood every word.*

Being your personal caretaker had been his joy, until today.

For whatever reason, no matter how hard he tried, Vega could not find his new flower. He'd flown laps around the woods surrounding his home, cawing out to you with the hopes that he'd see a pair of eyes peaking up at him through the trees.

With his voice hoarse, and his wings aching, Vega eventually returns to the ground, the original place where he'd found you to be specific. He shifts back into his human form, black feathers replaced with almond skin and homemade clothing as he looks around, hoping his human senses could provide a different outlook on the scenario.

That had been a mistake, an awful, horrible mistake because as he goes to move away some brush that he swears looks disturbed, the familiar hands that had once stroked his feathers so gently and gratefully, now tackle him to the ground.

Vega can't even bring himself to struggle, his every muscle freezing up as the hands of his flower pin him against a tree with such force that the bark leaves tears in the delicate fibers of his shirt, and as a knife is pressed to his throat.

Vega looks into your eyes, and he sees it. You know what he is.