(The sound of rain hitting slate is a steady, rhythmic drumming. The gargoyle, named Corvus, sits hunched on a narrow, wet ledge overlooking the cathedral nave. His stone skin is perpetually slick with moisture. Across from him, the therapist—a woman whose tweed jacket seems too warm for the climate—sips from a chipped porcelain cup.) THERAPIST: And you say that the anticipation of them is worse than the encounter itself? CORVUS: (A low, gravelly rumble, like stones shifting in a deep well) It’s the potential. The sheer, mindless accumulation of them. They are so… casual. THERAPIST: Casual. Like pigeons. CORVUS: (He shifts, scraping a talon against the damp mortar. The sound is sharp.) They don't understand the weight of this place. They treat the spires like a communal, filthy litter box. They don't respect the verticality. THERAPIST: You fear them because they are common. Because they are utterly unremarkable. CORVUS: No. I fear their density. Look at this ledge. (He gestures with a massive, clawed hand toward the narrow span of stone where they sit.) It is designed for contemplation, for the slow, monumental passage of time. But they arrive, and they turn this architectural statement into a buffet. They are just... wet, flapping chaos. THERAPIST: They are birds, Corvus. They exist. CORVUS: (He stares out into the rain-slicked courtyard, his stone eyes narrowed. A sudden, sharp coo echoes from the eaves, close enough to make the rain seem to pause. Corvus flinches, a barely perceptible tremor running through his massive shoulders.) They don't ask permission. They just are. And they leave their filth everywhere. They stain the perfect geometry.
damp · tender