Manfred sat at his well used escritoire, a typewriter sat before him, with naught but a single paragraph gracing its pure ivory page. The script was the foundation for a short story he was writing, starring a mischievous raven. He had come to the conclusion that he should do something to try to connect with his granddaughter, though he wanted to minimize verbal interaction with the child, thus leading to the inevitable decision to write a children's book. Knowing little about his granddaughter was proving to be a problem, as he hadn't the slightest inkling of what kind of childish things she was interested in, he briefly pondered writing her a letter, but decided against that promptly, his distaste for communication with children was insurmountable, even through post, as he found the incessant questions had a tendency to unearth dark history and memories better left forgotten. The type was eating at him though, as he did want his story to be of good quality, and, alas, a long career in law seemed to have killed any benevolent creativity he had, leaving only vestiges manifesting in evidence manipulation and blatant lies in the courtroom. The stories featured protagonist, a raven named Ebony, was based off of the loose knowledge of the girl, though he knew he may have completely missed the mark, as the last time they were in the same room, approximately 30 words were exchanged in total, most of them being comments on his part about silencing the infernal racket she had been making, though upon reflection he realized that she really wasn't being quite as loud as it must have seemed at the time.
He leaned forward, glowering at the accursed page in front of him, and slowly began to type. The story was about a raven completely enamored with shiny things, he decided, and that would drive the conflict which would be... His writing trailed off and he sighed, it was much easier to forge autopsies and witness reports then to write something meant to entertain a seven-year-old, what problems could a bird have that would be in anyway relatable to a human child?
He stood and shook his head, bewildered completely by the question, and decided that he should go for a quick walk, at least a distraction from the irritants of family matters.
The day was cold when he set out, and the sun had begun to set, casting the sky ablaze in fiery orange and pink, though he paid little attention to it, nature had never been of any real importance in his life, something he was beginning to regret now that he had to write a book about a bird, but it couldn't be helped now. The air was frigid and burned in his lungs, somewhere nearby a raven called and he turned to look at it. The bird was tearing at some roadkill, something that appeared to have been a squirrel at one point, now a sickening pile of decomposing flesh being feasted upon by a murder; That could be something to write about,He mused.