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Summary
"Your crow is quite lovely." He spins around, scythes drawn, to find an ashen woman stroking Dust's feathers as he sits perched on her hand. She smiles, unbothered by his aggressive stance. "What is his name?"
"Dust." He answers tersely.
She chuckles warmly. "Oh, how lovely. Very fitting."
"Are you a demon?"
She snorts. "Those wretches? Certainly not. However, in the interest of fairness, the angels have proven no more ... noteworthy than the demons."
