pigeon

pigeons come with people. wherever three or more beds stand claimed — a village, or a house that has honestly become one — a small flock settles on the lanes: residents rather than weather, capped at a handful, never despawning, never farmed because there is no spawner and no drop. no beds, no birds.

they walk more than they fly, bob their heads in time with their feet, and keep loose company — pigeons stand around together, they do not march. run through the flock and it goes UP in a clatter of wings, contagiously, one startled bird startling the birds beside it, and lands a few yards off as if nothing happened. bread and seeds draw a slow parade behind you. not tameable, not useful, entirely at home.

the voice is synthesized in-house on the ceilidh's precedent — a two-syllable coo warbled through a soft throat, and five slaps of filtered noise for the wings, three takes of each so the flock never sounds like a metronome. when crumb sets its crumbs out, the pigeons will learn to find them; when the parish arrives, the lane's gossips get names to overhear.