Oliver shook his feathers out.

Currently, he was not the bird-dog that he usually was. He was just a bird: some two feet tall, his five-foot wingspan held half-mantled at his sides and dripping with swamp water. He was a little tired; he'd spent time bringing someone to Cetus and now he was resting here, for a few days.

He hadn't dared metamorphose back into his natural form, because the pain scared the shit out of him. Transforming into an owl had been agony the first two times--and he'd never been conscious shifting back. The whole "fur and claws falling out and beak pushing from the skull" had left his world nothing but sharp, desperate pain, and so now he was just sort of living as an owl in the swamp, living in dread of the return to normal.

Oliver had made his way to one of the black water channels near the Heart, and now he was peering down at his reflection. His eyes--though now large and perfectly round--were still blue; the feather-tufts at the top of his head weren't all that different from his own, though smaller and more prominent. The beak-... that was different, and he clicked it a few times, shuddering at the sensation of having no teeth. He hadn't thought to look at himself before, and now that he did, he found it both dreadful and fascinating. This was the Wishing Stone's gift: a second form he could take at will. The feathers--jet black--were damp with muddy water, though, and he set about clumsily preening them as best he could. It was a learning process, this whole "keeping your feathers clean" thing. Before, he'd just have dunked himself in the water and that was that, but he'd found that muddied feathers made it hard to fly and the mud didn't just wash off like he'd hoped. Tattered feathers were even worse, so he was trying to keep them tidy.

What he could use, he reflected, was a distraction. Someone else, someone new, that he could help. And while he doubted there was anyone about, bar a couple lurking Children of Rot around (and he'd already spoken to Dragon), there was no harm in trying.

So he called out, idly, between the preening of one wing and the other: "Hello? Is anybody out there?"

It was eerie, how much the voice sounded like his own, though with an added sort of 'wind' to it--like a hoot embellishing every word.

But maybe--if he were lucky--he'd find someone to talk to.