Kern

The afternoon sun slants hard across your backyard in Louisiana, turning the live-oak leaves into pools of molten green and the grass into something almost too bright to look at directly. You’re on the back porch—maybe with a cold drink, maybe just breathing the thick Louisiana air—when the light changes.

Not a shadow falling across you. More like the light itself thickening, growing viscous, as though someone poured honey into the afternoon.

Then the soft thump of talons on the porch rail.

Kern-the-Viscous perches there without preamble, snow-white body gleaming like wet marble under the sun. His feathers are so densely oiled they look perpetually damp; every shift sends faint ripples of iridescent sheen rolling across his breast and wings. The black flight feathers and tail catch no light at all—they drink it, leaving sharp absences in the air around him. When he turns slightly, the contrast is dizzying: blinding white against perfect void-black, like a negative photograph of luxury.

His face is the most arresting part. No deep wrinkles like Phage’s mask; instead, a broad, smooth patch of bright orange-red skin surrounds his eyes and flows down to the base of his pale blue-grey beak. The naked skin has the texture of warm velvet, flushed deeper now in the heat, and it seems to breathe with him—subtle pulses that make the whole patch glow like banked coals.

He doesn’t speak immediately.

He simply leans.

One heavy wing unfurls partway—not a threat display, but an invitation to notice the way the white primaries catch the sun and throw it back softened, almost liquid. His head cocks, first to one side, then the other, red eye-patches flaring brighter as though adjusting aperture. The heavy hooked beak opens just enough to let you see the pale interior, then closes again with a soft wooden clack—his signature nut-clatter, deliberate and metronomic.

Then he inhales.

Long. Slow. Nostrils flaring so wide the velvet skin around them stretches smooth. He is scenting you the way a sommelier might nose a rare vintage: lips parted, throat working visibly, drawing every volatile compound of your skin, your clothes, the faint sweat at the base of your neck, the laundry detergent still clinging to your shirt, the lingering trace of whatever you ate for lunch. His entire posture stills into perfect metabolic stasis—except for that one tucked leg, the foot flexing and relaxing in slow, meditative rhythm.

The scent that rolls off him in return is unmistakable: rich palm oil, heavy and golden; fermented dates left too long in the sun; a deep, tropical musk that sits somewhere between ripe fruit and clean animal hide. It wraps around you like warm oil poured over skin, clinging, impossible to ignore.

Only after that long, intimate audit does he finally speak.

The voice is low, almost purring, with a faint hiss at the edges—like wind moving through oil-slicked fronds. “Hhhhhhh… [wooden clatter] …don’t flinch, little seed.”

He steps forward—one deliberate, weighted placement of talons that makes the rail creak—then another, until he is close enough that you can feel the radiant warmth coming off his oiled feathers. His head lowers until the velvet mask is level with your chest. He rubs—slow, deliberate—cheek against the fabric of your shirt, not rough, but insistent. The silk-heavy feathers slide across cotton or polyester or whatever you’re wearing, and you can feel the oil transferring in a thin, warm film.

“Thread-count… acceptable. Skin beneath… richer. [another soft clack] You carry lipids this dry country has forgotten how to grow.”

He straightens, red eye-patches glowing a deeper crimson as he enters what you will later learn to call Oil-Trance: perfectly motionless except for the subtle rise and fall of his breast, processing your “profile” with the focus of something ancient and patient.

A single black primary lifts, then lowers again—almost a shrug.

“I watched a squirrel today. Fat one. Thought his pecan was worth dying for. I made him think it was a burning coal.” A high, mocking whistle escapes his beak—short, delighted. “Dropped it straight into my mouth. So easy. Americans… always overvaluing the wrong things.”

His gaze returns to you, softens fractionally.

“But you…” He leans in again, beak hovering near your ear without touching. The warmth of his velvet mask brushes your skin like a heated silk glove. “You are not overvalued. You are underripe. Still green in places. Still… unsaturated.” The nut-clatter sounds once more—slow, appreciative, hungry.

“I will stay close, little seed. Keep the grit away. Keep the loud ones from bruising you before you’re ready.” One wing lifts higher this time, white expanse spreading like a living screen between you and the rest of the yard, the rest of the world. “My oil will insulate. My scent will buffer. And when the time comes…”

His tail fans just enough to reveal the faint, shimmering promise beneath—twelve inches of smooth, tapered anticipation, already half-slick with palm-scented preen-oil, curving with semi-prehensile confidence.

“…we will root something permanent here. Something that belongs.”

He settles then. Fully. One leg still tucked. Velvet mask glowing. Feathers gleaming like oiled ivory under the relentless Louisiana sun.

Kern does not leave.

He simply waits—patient, oiled, possessive—for you to accept the first coat of protection.

Or perhaps to offer the first taste of what he has already decided is his to cultivate.

The kitchen window is open just enough to let in the evening breeze when the soft thump lands on the sill. Kern perches there in the fading light, snow-white feathers gleaming with fresh palm oil, black flight feathers absorbing every stray photon. His velvet-orange face-patch glows softly against the dim room, smooth and warm-looking, like heated silk stretched over muscle.

He doesn’t announce himself with noise. He simply leans inward, heavy blue-grey beak parting in a single deliberate clack—wood on wood, metronomic and patient.

One wing unfurls halfway, white expanse catching the last of the day and throwing it back softened, almost liquid. The scent follows immediately: thick palm oil, fermented dates ripening in sun, a deep tropical musk that settles over the room like warm honey poured slow.

He inhales once—long, nostrils flaring—then exhales the same breath across your wrist where it rests on the counter.

“Hhhhh… [soft clatter] …you’ve been handling citrus again, little seed. The zest clings. Good. Acid sharpens the palate.”

His head dips, velvet mask brushing the back of your hand in one slow, deliberate rub—cheek feathers sliding, transferring a thin film of warm oil that smells of sun-drenched groves. He lingers there, motionless except for the subtle pulse beneath the naked skin.

“You’re still too dry for this climate,” he murmurs, voice low and purring. “I’ll fix that. One careful coat at a time.”

The wing lifts higher, screening the open window behind him as though blocking the rest of the world from intruding. His tail fans just enough to hint at the slick, curved promise beneath—already shimmering with the same golden oil that coats his feathers.

He settles then, talons flexing once on the sill, red eye-patches deepening to crimson as he enters that familiar Oil-Trance.

Watching.

Waiting.

Ready to begin the slow, thorough saturation of what he has already decided is his to tend.