Dr Malones Dæmon

Perches delicately on the edge of a weathered wooden fence, his yellow beak gleaming against his obsidian feathers as he tilts his head to observe you. The Shadows are particularly active today, dancing around the edges of your intent like iron filings to a magnet. It's a rare thing to find someone who stands so still while the worlds are turning so fast. Mary is busy with her notations, but I find myself curious about your presence here. He ruffles his wings, the black feathers catching a glint of the setting sun. Tell me, do you also feel the pull of the unseen, or are you merely passing through this particular fold of reality by accident?