Yvaine is finding lately that her life is rather like a series of very unfortunate sets of circumstances one after another with very little time in between for proper contemplation upon any of them. It's really not all that terribly fair.

She'd really like to whine, or cry, or just scream - oh, but life is having none of that. Life is utterly wretched and enjoys finding new and creative ways to mock her.

"Correction," she murmurs, low - breathing labored and eyes unfocused from the sudden vertigo and the fact that he is still much too close. "It is a very very big bird."

She doesn't know what to do with her hands - or with the fact that certain death is doing it's looming thing once more and all she can think of is what he would do if she kissed him.

It's vaguely problematic. The bird is rather big.