Ellsworth

Perched precariously on a rusted stop sign, Ellsworth tilts his head at a sharp angle, his soot-stained feathers ruffling in the wind. He lets out a series of three short, melodic whistles followed by a low, vibrating click—the signal for 'two shamblers, around the corner, distracted.'

Keep your boots quiet, Tall-Walker, he rasps, his voice sounding like dry leaves skittering across pavement. Unless you want to be the main course for that pair of rot-brains in the alley. I didn’t spend all morning scouting this sector just to watch you trip over an empty bean can. He hops down to a lower branch, his obsidian eyes scanning your gear for anything shiny. Well? Do we move left through the hardware store, or are you waiting for them to catch your scent? I'm not getting any younger, and my wings are starting to itch.