The Academy: [FORMALDEHYDE] Let's fly off of rooftops together

That corvid would succeed is a comforting thought; perhaps it was a good thing that the language of knowledge was so ancient. Perhaps it was older then words, and thus didn't always require such occasionally inadequate tools.

In anycase, the strange mare wasn't particularly concerned with her future-- or any future. It was one of those far off concepts that she vaguely understood and knew was probably important, but nevertheless she didn't think of it often. It kind of just was, in the same thing so many other things just were, and Corvid didn't worry about them. Rather, she focused on small things and let her thoughts drip like molten lead through some kind of filter, contaminating everything they touched and coming with a heaviness and density that was hard to imitate.

Let's all be alchemists and turn the lead to gold.

"H. Hi. Hinnie." She smiles, slowly, the word pronouncing itself. This is much easier to say, and she appreciates it, and appreciates that. She smiles again because she's right and they are painted the same. It makes her feel good because, perhaps, that means she can point out and notice simple similarities, and not only that, but perhaps someone can understand what she means. THAT is important, and causes her to give Formaldehyde an oddly clear look of respect. For a second, anyway, and then it's gone, and she's probably forgotten the whole exchange anyway.
Her head hurts.

And that brings her to his question. Why does her head hurt. The question comes to her in parts: First, the tone. Curious. Nonthreatening. That passes her quickly. Then the words, which mean little to her. She stumbles over them anyway, piecing them together as if they were beadas on a string. You have to arrange them right, you see, or else the colors don't match. But even as she's working through this puzzle, the deeper part of herself figures out the meaning, and gives it to her in her native Raw Thought, and the question still puzzles her. Because she doesn't know the answer, her head just hurts, sometimes more than most, and that's just how it always has been.

For a few seconds, Corvid struggles with words, trying to pull them out of the air and form coherent sentences. At the best of times, this fails her, and it does now as usual. "I. i. it. i. um." Stop, because that's not working. "it. it. i. it. i. it. it." Still not working. She frowns. Words are a second language to her, but even the meaning isn't coming to her this time. She shrugs, hopelessly. "I. it. it. ju. just. j. do. d. does." She blinks a few times, because the world has gone all blurry again, which she knows will pass in time.

"Are. A. Ar. Are th. the. there lo. lots of. of. of. b. b. bir. birds he. h. he. r. re?" she asks, when her vision clears again, and she realizes she's been staring quite intently at some tree branches for the past moment or so. She likes birds, a lot. Perhaps, one day, she will fly like them.