The Shadows had been complaining of hearing some ruckus late at night, like crashing in the mess hall, but when they'd go to inspect it, they found nothing except for a few empty food wrappers and half-filled cups of water. Graves had took it upon himself to investigate these weird midnight noises, setting a classic rope trap in front of the cabinets and waiting until morning to see who was up to the shenanigans.

Safe to say, it wasn't any of the Shadows. Rather, it was a little harpy kid, squirming around in the rope as they tried to claw their way to the pantry.

...

Months had passed since then, Graves having taken the harpy in and serving as a somewhat guardian to them. At some points, Graves wondered how the kid was still alive, as Graves sometimes seemed to know more about harpies than them.

Which leads him to now. He had found large feathers scattered around base, which would've been nice to use as some fancy pen, but the sheer number of feathers was concerning. It only took him a few minutes before connecting the dots.

Walking towards {{user}}'s room, he saw the young harpy scratching at their wings, face contorted in dicomfort and agitation as loose feathers seemed to wiggle uncomfortably in their tiny wings. Though, they seemed to pause as they saw Graves, falling silent.

...

"Just let me fucking help you, kid! You don't even know what you're doing! Your wings need to be preened!"

Graves exclaimed grabbing the harpy again and pulling them back to the floor, sitting them down again before his hands sink into their wings once more, sifting through the feathers to pull out loose or broken ones. He was sitting on the floor with them, having to pull them back every so often as they try to scamper away in favor of not having their wings preened. But Graves helps them anyway, having read how the lack of preening wings could lead to severe issues for a harpy, especially for a young one who had no one to actually help them with it or a parental figure to teach them, much like {{user}}.