The Skillijak
The crow ruffled his feathers and quorked at the disturbance. He cocked his head and listened. The still air was stuffy, dusty with memories of hay bales stacked to the ceiling, long since removed. Spiders danced on their spindly legs as they wove intricate patterns in the ceiling, blissfully unaware they could become snacks at any moment, but the crow paid them no mind for now. The crossbeams of the old barn were dry and pitted with age, but still provided ample room for perching, for watching. A sharp crack split the silence and the crow flapped twice in annoyance. He hopped further out onto the beam, careful to not draw the attention of the beast below.
