He was a little thief, and he knew it. He'd been out of Cetus only a cycle, or--two, perhaps, had it been? He wasn't sure. The black bird only knew that he had grown, and survived. He'd found good caves, with good food, but his restless nature kept him from settling in any one place for very long. Instead he'd eat in Eridanus, then wander a tunnel for a day--searching, always, but he never knew what for.

Corsair did know that he'd found jealousy, envy, a desire for material things. He'd seen the Spire and decided that he wanted that, but its ominous buzz when he'd drawn closer had made him decide that perhaps stealing the entire Spire wasn't the best idea. He wasn't entirely sure how to move it, anyway; he'd figured he'd get a plan once he'd reached it, but he never had.

He'd "stolen" shiny rocks he'd found, and shells of little creatures, but more often than not he forgot them--stashing them somewhere and forgetting, or waking up and leaving without remembering that he'd had some "buried treasure" just beneath him. Other times, he'd destroyed the "treasures" idly with his beak, to his own dismay--he'd wake from his idle trance to realize he'd wrecked that cool stick he'd found while not paying attention to his own damn actions.

Ahh, well!

Right now, he was visiting Gemini for the very first time. The crystalline walls and alcoves of geode gemstones had him fascinated: it was all very pretty, and he admired each gleam of light and glint of sparking refraction throughout. The hum of the Rift, however, at last caught his attention--and with a flutter of black wings he veered for that, head flicking this way and that as he settled in to examine it.

"What the fuck is that?" he asked it, aloud--he hadn't made very many friends, so his speech was both basic and foul, and was often just directed at himself. "What the fuck are you?" he proceeded to demand of the Rift.

He got halfway through his next demand--"WHAT the FUCK are-" (seemingly under the assumption that screaming louder might get the non-sentient whorl of magic to answer him) when a book shot out and smacked him in the beak. It knocked him back, black legs stumbling, and a shriek escaped him.

One flutter back and away, and he realized the book was in fact an inanimate object. "-WHY?" he demanded of the rift, but it did not answer him further.

With an irritated ruffle of feathers, he cast a wary glance back. If he went to pick up that... small, rectangular, uhh--thing?--that had just fallen out, would the magic throw more shit at him-? Well, it was an object, and he therefore wanted it, so he'd just have to take that risk.

One rapid flap of black feathers later and he was there, snagging the little almanac in a thick hooked beak, and then he was away again, another suspicious glance cast back at the rift as he landed a distance off. Then he took the time to examine his questionable new prize.

First, he shook it up and down. This did nothing, bar showing him that the book was made of pages.

So, second, he opened it--feet and beak carefully manipulating the paper, his crest rising as red eyes scanned the pictures and squiggly black lines. He couldn't make heads nor tails of the writing, of course, but he examined it with puzzlement nonetheless. "What the fuck are you-?" he whispered to it, confused but fascinated--and a little annoyed. Why couldn't it have spat out food, or something really cool-? Why was he given a slab of wiggly paper to work with?

He tore out one page, and tried to eat it, but it tasted awful--luckily just an advertisement for farming tools--and he left that lying crumpled on the ground. And he realized then that he didn't want to destroy his strange new "treasure" any further, for once. At least, probably not. Until he got bored.

Foot reached down, curving another page, sweeping it open. Red eyes examined the letters on this page.

After a long few moments' examination, Corsair gave up trying to figure out what this thing was.

The bird flapped up to the top of a geode crystal, taking his almanac with him. Then he began to beat it on the rock, smacking it, listening to the thwaps and swats and flaps the pages made.

After a solid five minutes, he realized he still had no idea what this book was for--and he was growing bored with it. Still, it was his, and he'd never give it up! Unless he forgot about it, or was traded for something shinier. Hmm.

Plan B. (Corsair had no plan B.)

Anyone entering Gemini at this moment would have found an... interesting sight: the black Palm Cockatoo sweeping around the cave, a book hanging from his immense beak by one corner. He was flying quite close to the geodes, and each time he passed another rock, he slapped the book against it as hard as he could. It wasn't doing anything; the book was still a book, and taking the battering easily. It was made of paper, not squishy stuff. But it wasn't really clear what the cockatoo was doing.

Hell, Corsair didn't know, himself; it just... seemed like the thing to do.

All the thwacking and slapping gave Corsair an idea.

After a few moments he settled, leaving the almanac on the top of a crystal for just a moment to do a sweep around the cave. He found what he (thought he) was looking for a few moments later: a single blade of grass.

Yes! Surely, this would be the perfect percussive instrument.

He flew back up to his book, and settled in. "NOW FOR MY MASTERPIECE," he called, to anyone who would listen.

He reared back, eyes blazing, grass blade in beak.

Then he slammed it down on the book!

...thwit.

He'd obviously not done that right-...

Another rear back. Another slam down!

Thwit.

He dropped the grass blade. This was a terrible drumstick! It didn't THUNK and THUMP at all?! He inhaled, crest erecting as he glared at it. "FUCK!" he screamed at it, and then, feathers ruffling, swept down to look for something else.

Grass percussion had not paid off.

Hmm. The black bird was on a mission, now. If anyone had asked him, Corsair'd not have been able to explain (not in any coherent manner, at least) what exactly that mission was: but he was determined in it.

He'd find something, and he'd do something with it (not yet determined, on either front) and he'd make the book do something, too.

Corsair had to start somewhere.

Wings spread, book clamped firmly in beak, he took off again. This time he circled more slowly, eyes searching the alcoves and crystals with curious caution. There was... nothing, at least nothing that caught his eye, and he huffed.

This cave sucks, he decided; he'd have to go somewhere less suck to find something useful to his questionable plans.

He'd have sworn aloud, but there was still a book clasped in his beak.