Owner	Pose
Sinister	Ahh, the call of the sea. Primordial in a lot of respects, a challenge to others. And fish? Fish think in such interesting ways. It is not a tranquil ocean this day, but a wind blows from the northeast, bringing a fresh cool but also a vigorousness of surface that makes it impossible to see into the roll of waves. Sinister was last here as a lot of Ospreys. This time, in the nature preserve, far away from prying eyes, he's himself, more or less, wings out and going through a kind of tai-chi with feathers. It's quite graceful in its way -- sweeps down, with them fully spread, using the leading edge to brush across all the heads of meadow flowers at the same time, raising up to balance on one leg, with the fire-touched primaries to the heavens at their tallest point. A floating screen hovers in the air not that far away, occasionally playing his motions back to him for review.
Yaozu	It was something that Yaozu was fairly used to having happen. He would set out to wander, to let his feet take him where they would, and he would end up at a water's edge. Even when he was still in Beijing, it would happen. The avian is dressed simply -- a set of traditional Chinese robes that have been altered to accomodate the fact that he's not human in appearance. The robes are black, and there is a trim of dark crimson along the edges of the sleeves, at the neck, and at the lower edge of them. Black feathery ear tufts flicked up even though they had naught to do with listening, and Yaozu stepped out from the trees that he had been walking amidst within the nature preserve. He'd been following a noise or rather a set of noises that had perked his curiosity even from afar. There is a whisper of soft sound from the silks that he wears, and from the light brush of his long black hair across his back. His head tilts to one side as he looks towards who practices tai chi, the gesture more owlish than human, and Yaozu's right hand slips to the small of his back, vanishing out of sight beneath his wing. A quiet approach is not his, for the talons of his feet make sounds with each step he takes.
Sinister	Sinister's senses don't rely on the standard five. The approach is felt far sooner than he can even hear the click of talons on the ground. His eyes are not their standard red in the dusk twilight, they are white as snow, glowing oh-so-slightly. He glances in the direction of the strange and the latest Kata ends with a cartwheel kick that has both wings half-furled and kicking out infront and behind with the landing sweep. Somewhere a marshbird hoots at dusk and goes about roosting. It's that weird half-time where it isn't all the way one way or another. "I know you. I don't think you know me. But you don't look like you did." Sinister observes, watching the owl-man curiously. "You look like the Mothman prophecies."
Yaozu	The avian's eyes are hazel, flecked with green -- the colour of them hadn't changed when the rest of him had, even though the shape and position of them had. He watches as the last kata is ended, studying the movement in the manner of one who has familiar with martial arts. The wings that belong to the other fellow are given a look, and his own black-feathered wings snug a touch closer against his back. Self-conscious, perhaps, as he hasn't figured out all of the ways of making his wings be the most useful for himself. There's a swift glance cast in the direction of the marshbird's cry, and the feathered ear tufts flatten as Yaozu turns his gaze back to the fellow who claims to know him. Keeping his right hand at the small of his back, he approaches a bit closer while keeping a certain distance at the same time, should the other winged man wish to resume his practice. "How do you know of me?" Yaozu asks, a flicker of curiosity touching his voice. He's not the most talkative sort to start with, but at least he's figured out speaking with a beak, for the most part. Then he gives a small shake of his head. "I am not familiar with the Mothman prophecies that you mention. Although it would not surprise me if they are things of ill omen, superstition being what it is amongst some cultures," he says softly. He knows what he looks like, and he knows how both Chinese and Japanese people view him. Superstitions are not a terribly kind thing sometimes.
Sinister	Sinister casts his hand to the viewscreen, fingers spread. There's a flicker, then the mothman appears, scrolling through a series of tragic events, including the collapse of the cable bridge that triggered the end of the sightings. Slender, avian or mothlike, large eyes, large wings, alienly human materializing before the disaster, including a lot of portens associated with giant owl-like creatures, documented across america over the last century. Then it flashes to the moments just before now, the stance and the two of them captured looking at one another in freezeframe. "I saw you talking to a god, on a dock, challenging the water. You didn't see me. But you aren't the man you were, so maybe that's a lifetime ago now. I have no doubt that there's a story there," he nods toward the owl-man that Yaozu now is, crouching low, then springing and backflipping with his wings flared, that his kick is high and windmilled, landing on the ground in a crouch, palm to the marshgrass and wings a'quivering. He repeats this three more times, each time about five foot higher off the ground.
Yaozu	Lin Yaozu turns his gaze towards the viewscreen. And though he could look away, there is something oddly compelling about watching the play of the various images that are brought to it. His gaze is steadfast and unblinking, as owlish as is the rest of him. His wings at his back droop just a touch at the tragic things that the prophecies seem to revolve around. The similarity between how it looks and his own appearance is not lost on him. Superstitions, it would seem, are things that don't belong just to the Chinese and the Japanese people. How is he to do good when there are so many that associate the very look of him with evil? "I was fishing. I remember it, yes," Yaozu says softly, giving a small nod. "My appearance, my body, is different, that is true. My mind is still the same," he adds, tilting his head to one side. "Many things have a story behind them," he comments, his beak making a snicking sound as the upper and lower rub together. "You repeat the movements to seek to ingrain them as instinct?" he asks, curious.
Sinister	"Question for the ages that. Occasionally, you have to embrace being the Monster that they think you are, to do the good you perceive and know needs doing." Sinister says it with such a profound belief to the words that it's hard to deny that to him, it's a conviction. He nods though, a curt thing as he repeats the backflip kick wing-slam manoever another three times, leaping a fourth time in order to sweep those huge pinions around, creating such a downdraft, to keep himself in one position above the marsh. That seems to be less familiar to him than other things have been and takes more effort for him to achieve; the hovering in place with over-large wings. They're not entirely avian either, there's an extra joint that allows for a greater motility and oddly emotivity than a regular bird's wings. He can bring those suckers out in more extreme directions than could an ordinary bird. He lands after about a minute of hovering on the spot, into a crouch. "I'm going to suppose that you didn't just wake up one morning covered in plumage and lacking lips. Something was done to you. Not a mutant, not a mutate either, that takes time. Unless someone worked on you, you should not be quite so complete as you are."
Liansong	The dusk is actually a good time for Liansong to be out flying. The truth is, most people never look to the sky, so it doesn't really matter what time of night or day it is. They won't ever hear him, for the silent flight his owl feathers give him. Unlike the avian already on the ground, Liansong is white. Starkly so. With a pink beak that has had designs painted or etched onto it. Aboriginal designs. His arms and legs are also pale pink, with white talons that show the pinkness of the veins within. He is likely an albino. He wears clothing, though they are rather minimal. At present, they consist of a loose flowy robe type affair of silk. Not unlike Yaozu's, but less.. formal in nature. Much more elaborate, though. This one sports a bright rainbow tiedye. He wears nothing else. His thoughts probably give his presence away to Sinister, at least, even if his silent flight does not give him away to either. Those thoughts mainly consist of science on the genetics end of the spectrum, with the occasional branching thought of biology or virology. His is an interesting mind, and one that never lets loose of any knowledge that comes into it.
Yaozu	The Chinaman's head ducks slightly at the statement, and then he gives a small shake of his head. "I cannot change the way that so many perceive me. My own cultures view me as an omen of death and ill fortune, a demon who partakes of souls, and even many of them sought to spill my blood and kill me," Yaozu says quietly. Not all of them -- not all. There had been an unexpected protector in the mob, and there was the boy as well. But many of them wanted his life, his blood. He tilts his head a touch to one side as he watches the repeated movement, studying it in his own way. He exhales a breath through his nares, and the he gives a nod. "I did not awaken to suddenly be what I am. It happened over the course of time. A mutation, caused by a substance that was injected. It happened slowly, at first," he says softly. He pauses at that point, his wings ruffling softly at his back, and he gives a small nod. "Someone... assisted it along to its completion," he adds, offering that much even if he doesn't speak the name of who did so. The feathery ear tufts rise up and wobble a little bit, listening to the dusk sounds of the preserve. He doesn't hear Liansong, and... he's not yet in the habit of really looking to the skies, to pay much attention to that direction. It's a thing he still has to learn, and his approach is from a direction that he's not looking towards.
Sinister	Sinister is just not that easy to get the drop on. Sensing the mind, it takes a moment -- scan the ground. Nope. Scan the sky. Ah, there we are. Looking at the figure of the white owl, he angles his head to the side. "It's a regular Parliament," he murmurs, looking over the colour choices of the one that's still coming in for a landing and the one on the ground, looking all kinds of formal and dour. Sensible. Takes things serious. He sniffs, folds his arms and his wings back, tipping his head the other way. "Nope. Can't change people's minds. They frown at that you know. Get all kinds of affronted if you try," he jerks his chin toward the incoming Liansong. "Friend of yours? It's like looking through an old photo film."
Liansong	Liansong hears a familiar voice below, and turns his head to look more closely that way. His beak comes open in an owl style grin, and he angles his wings to fly that way. Big wings they are, too, and the feathers well cared for. As becomes obvious when backwings to a landing. As his feet touch the ground, Liansong folds his large, white wings neatly to his back and sides. "'allo, mate," he says to Yaozu. "Out for a stroll?" His accent is very, very Australian. After the greeting to the one he knows, his glacial blue eyes look toward the other winged fellow. "'allo," he greets. "I am a friend of his. Not sure what you mean by lookin' through an old photo film, though." Perhaps he'd missed something?
Yaozu	Yaozu tilts his head as he notices the fellow checking both ground and sky, a flicker of curiosity showing in his hazel eyes. His wings shift slightly, one of his ear tufts tilting a touch. He looks up to the sky, then blinks out of surprise at seeing Liansong. It was unexpected, but assuredly not unwelcome. "I suppose that two would be enough to qualify as a parliament," he says softly, giving a small nod. "Perceptions and first impressions can be difficult to impact," he says, his tone thoughtful. "Yes. He is a friend. We are roommates, he and I." As Liansong comes in for a landing and makes it look so terribly easy, Yaozu watches. Observation can help with learing, not that he's ready to do any flying. "Good day, Liansong," he says, a small smile finding its way to being expressed. "Mm, a stroll was the idea, yes," he affirms. It helps with getting used to his body the way it has become, and with his balance.
Sinister	Sinister can't help himself on that one. He looks as the white owlman, then the black owlman, back and forth. Then another gesture at his vidscreen that hovers, pulling up a picture of a furry owlperson and wit a flick of a finger at it, turning it from positive 'film' to negative 'film.' Back and forth a few times, until the point is made in black and white. "That?" it comes out as a question regardless of whether he meant it to or not, just out of amusement factor. "Oh, wait, it's antiquated. Dear me, my anachronisms are showing. How embarassing." "Hello, friend of oddly mutatated and accelerated owl man, who is also an owl man. It's like the two of you were -made- to be roomies," he chuckles. Then he walks over to his vidscreen and touches the edge, looking at it critically and standing infront of it for a few moments, scrolling through ID files on a gamut of individuals at high speed. Basic credentials, from the perspective of the Albino that never forgets, with a photo. Villains and heros and the grey area between, all who could potentially accelerate a mutation in record time. Liansong might even pop up briefly.
Liansong	Liansong fluffs out his feathers and gives himself a shake. Once done, he settles to a comfortable stance. "Good good. Strolls are good. Help limber up the muscles." The white avian owl looks from Yaozu to the new person, and his ear tufts perk up curiously. "Ah. I get it now." He laughs and shakes his head. "Well, it's like this. A couple weeks ago, I was as black as him," he says, hooking a thumb toward Yaozu to indicate what he was meaning. "But when he came back black, I washed the feather dye from my feathers. Otherwise, some people would have a hard time tellin' us apart. Maybe I'll go back to the black. Or some other color. Hrm." Now he sounds thoughtful. As the man moves to the vid screen, Liansong's blue eyes settle to it and he watches. The information is, of course, filed away for later perusal. His feathers fluff up a bit as his photo pops up briefly. Yes. He is one who has the knowledge and skills to accelerate a mutation. He's one of those who has the ability to inflict sucha mutation on another person.
Yaozu	The black avian turns his gaze towards the vidscreen once again, and he tilts his head a touch out of curiosity as he watches the flipping of the images. "Like a film that has not been developed into a photo, yet," Yaozu says softly. His hazel gaze turns to Liansong at the comment from Sinister, for he hadn't quite come around to thinking of it in that particular way as of yet. Had the nature of his mutation suspected before he'd come to New York? Yaozu had been told it was inactive before he transferred here, and no one had thought to tell him more than that. "Mm," Yaozu agrees, giving a small nod to Liansong's words. "He was, just as black," he affirms. His attention turns to the vidscreen, watching as the assorted ID files happen to flicker past. He doesn't have Liansong's memory, but there is only one that will stir his recognition as the one who took him captive to Japan. And that one is none other than the God of Mischief, Loki.