He knew he would be on that first voyage if he could manage it, the idea of flight on something so ingenious like an itch he never knew he had. The top deck is cold, and the cold is a familiar fiend, one he bundles up against and finds himself smiling into as the winds catch at his him, tousling his hair.

The small white wolf at his side leaps up to place her paws on the railing, and Victor simply steps up behind her, his hands coming to rest on either side of her paws. "Have you ever seen anything like it, Makka?" he asks, his head lowered to speak by her ear. She hadn't, of course she hadn't, but there's a certain wonder in this that they both share, so acute they even find themselves laughing when the ship rocks in a strong crosswind, Victor bracing them both against the ship's side.

"Wow! Not quite like riding the sea, is it?"

Makka makes a hurrowling sound in her throat, tailtip twitching, ears flicking forward as she shoves her head back over the railing to peer down.

These were the kinds of celebrations he used to perform for, making use of his magic to enthrall and entertain. The energy of the crowd would feed into such performances, the challenge in the emotion he could pull out of them, the surprise he could leave them feeling, for better and for the more heartbroken. Victor's performances hadn't always been about happy things, but Lefkokó, that was. Dance, freedom, madness, cunning, those could be the cause of misfortune, but the day wasn't only focused on such things, as long as one was sensible about the games they played.

He missed the music. New music now, though some songs were familiar themes, a testimony to the strength of tradition across decades. He was always a quick ear, and now he listened and joined in the singing with the lusty crowds that pulled him in, a jovial smile or arm thrown over his shoulders inviting him and Makka to be part of the celebrations as if they all belonged.

i: If he spied someone he recognised from the tavern, he either offered them a mug of hot beverage (maybe the mead or the spiced wine or the apple cider), or he offered them a hand and a wink with a smile that said I know this is as silly as it seems, but maybe we can play along, just for a while.

"Join me for a dance?"

He wasn't any expert, but he was light on his feet, and the point to these folk-like traditions was to let the energy lead, not to fight it into court-like rigid behaviour.

---

ii: After the juveniles were released, Victor stood in one smaller square next to a broken fountain, Makka near his feet. Three of the juvenile ravens were across the fountain from him, feasting on crumbled bread he'd strewn around for them. He smiled, brief and nostalgic, before he stepped back and swept into a bow.

One of the ravens watched him, bobbing their head in turn. It was the only recognition he appeared to be looking for, because as he straigthened, he brought his hands up, cupping them together as he formed the magic in his mind.

He hadn't tried this particular magic in years. Wasn't even sure it would come to him as easily as it did before so much of his magic was invested into fighting, but he wanted it to respond like he remembered. Wanted it so badly that Makka whimpered, and Victor lifted his hands, setting free an illusionary raven that could never have fit into their limited space over his head.

As the illusion flew, Victor began to dance, face turned skyward, the sweep of his arms more emphatic than the movement of his legs in his half turns or spins, evocative of flight. Which was entirely the purpose, as the illusion dipped and twirled and joined in acrobatics that corresponded to Victor's movements on the ground: not exact copies, but the source of inspiration that guided.

The watching ravens cried out, hopping around on the ledge of the broken fountain. The one that had bobbed their head beat their wings to catch the air, diving toward the illusion, then banking away. It became a game, a dance between illusion and reality without the dramatics of so many of his shows from his youth. He kept it simple, the dancing flight of a snow crow that matched and complimented and spun away from the acrobatics of the true snow crow, first just one, then after a long moment, all three.

The dance came to an end with the illusion dropping back down to Victor, seeming to merge with him as he dispersed that magic, refracting light off himself and dazzling the whole of the small square and the ravens within it.

They cry out from where they wheel in the air, their playmate now gone, and he held up one arm as an invitation. Only one raven takes it, backwinging as it landed, talons cruel and careful as they grasped Victor's arm. The snow raven regarded Victor with one eye, then scooted up his arm, up to his shoulder, in dangerous reach of their powerful beak.

The snow raven reached out, preening part of Victor's bangs. Then they side-marched back down his arm, and with an expectant air, Victor smiled and closed his eyes. "As you like, snowbird," he said, dipping his arm and then lifting it skyward, helping throw the raven back into the bright midday skies.

The birds all wheeled away, soon gone as if they'd never been there at all.