Frowzy: Habitually unkempt.
Helblindi wakes up to an angry chirping directly into his ear, and rolls over, nearly squashing Henry in the process and only infuriating the little ice blue chick more. Darcy sleeps like a log, and does not even twitch as Helblindi sits up groggily, Henry clutched in one hand, and cracks an eye open to stare at the little demon.
"It looks like somebody's feathers are ruffled," Helblindi mutters. The pre-dawn light is just bright enough to make out Henry's angry little eyes, and the way his three crown feathers tuft out in all crazy directions. Henry at this point would most likely have wanted to say something rather cutting about how it was all Helblindi's fault, after all he had been the one to roll over onto Henry in the first place, was he even aware of how much he weighed, he ought to lose a good three stone or so - but as such, his species had not been granted the gift of speech, and so he had to settle for wriggling furiously in Helblindi's grasp and trying to peck at any available flesh.
"Alright, alright, shut up would you?" Helblindi asks, reaching over for the little black comb on the nightstand table. Henry peeps in approval as he holds the comb up for his inspection, and positively purrs - but nobody would use that word to describe Henry or his noises - as Helblindi runs the teeth of the comb through his little feathers and smooths them back down. "You know they're only going to get messy again in approximately three minutes."
Henry even goes so far as to cuddle up to Helblindi's middle finger before circling his palm once, twice, thrice and settling down into sleep again.
True to form, even as Helblindi watches, three minutes on the dot later Henry's crown feathers spring up, bouncing lazily above his head.
As Helblindi lies back down and wraps an arm around the still-sleeping Darcy, he prays for the day when Henry will be able to comb his own feathers.