[He smiles primly. Not quite what he had been getting at, but he’ll take the rare and unexpected compliment as it comes whether or not it was intended.]

Where I am from, 'tis believed that ravens are omens of witchery and death.

[He lets the thought hang in the air as if to invite Eugene to supply his opinion before a scoffing sort of laugh bubbles up from him.]

Does it look like I can fly? I haven’t the plumage to keep very warm, let alone to take the skies. All the same… ‘twould seem I have little trouble turning unto me the eyes of others even bare of feathers as I am. [A smirk of devilish satisfaction quirks his lips. And then a pause.]

...would that be the hilt of your axe pressed to my hip? [Pale eyes glitter with amusement.]