Well, the Doctor would be holding out for a stegosaurus, personally. Then all he'd have to do is find another person and he could talk about stegosaurus brains, with an actual stegosaurus to point at. The issue of the scary forest would be purely secondary. Yes, it's unnaturally frightening and yes, that's probably something he should be investigating. At least this time he didn't start out in a nightgown. Wait, another telepathically structured dream!
The Doctor is halfway to carelessly kneeling in the loamy dirt, eager to examine anything he can find up close, when he hears loud and somehow impatient wingbeats nearby. Not something in flight, something resettling, or even trying to get his attention, like a throat clearing. It has to be deliberate, an owl like that can have wingbeats so silent they almost wrap back around into being sound again.
Dirt inspections hastily shelved, he approaches the owl on its low branch, feeling compelled, feeling strangely like he should recognise this owl, which is not a common feeling, usually it's people that make him feel this way. Always with these dreams and shoving bits of something very large and complex into a smaller and outwardly simpler package, why is that? Because that's certainly no proper owl, no matter how disgruntled and feathery it looks. Cautiously the Doctor extends his hand to the bird, though it feels quite safe. What an odd thing to dream, putting part of one's self into a bird. The bird steps onto his hand, like it belongs there, like something he'd only set down moments before, intending to pick it up again. Surprisingly light given its size, but then under all the feathers and ferocity it's just bones, after all, and hollow ones at that. "Hello, I'm the Doctor." Very politely he offers the bird his other hand; rather than shake it, the owl gives it a quick nibble, and he pats its head, very carefully, in the way of someone unused to patting things. But this is an okay thing to pat, he can feel it.
"My name is Sraif," the bird says matter-of-factly. Her voice is melodious, though he can hear the potential for raucousness in it. Very incongruous, coming out of an animal that looks so angrily intent. And indeed, the owl seems done with socialising. "Hadn't we better get started?" Fair enough. He lifts the bird on height with his shoulder, where it settles quite impressively, claws only a little uncomfortable. Oh well, this shirt was in terrible shape anyway.
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The Doctor is halfway to carelessly kneeling in the loamy dirt, eager to examine anything he can find up close, when he hears loud and somehow impatient wingbeats nearby. Not something in flight, something resettling, or even trying to get his attention, like a throat clearing. It has to be deliberate, an owl like that can have wingbeats so silent they almost wrap back around into being sound again.
Dirt inspections hastily shelved, he approaches the owl on its low branch, feeling compelled, feeling strangely like he should recognise this owl, which is not a common feeling, usually it's people that make him feel this way. Always with these dreams and shoving bits of something very large and complex into a smaller and outwardly simpler package, why is that? Because that's certainly no proper owl, no matter how disgruntled and feathery it looks. Cautiously the Doctor extends his hand to the bird, though it feels quite safe. What an odd thing to dream, putting part of one's self into a bird. The bird steps onto his hand, like it belongs there, like something he'd only set down moments before, intending to pick it up again. Surprisingly light given its size, but then under all the feathers and ferocity it's just bones, after all, and hollow ones at that. "Hello, I'm the Doctor." Very politely he offers the bird his other hand; rather than shake it, the owl gives it a quick nibble, and he pats its head, very carefully, in the way of someone unused to patting things. But this is an okay thing to pat, he can feel it.
"My name is Sraif," the bird says matter-of-factly. Her voice is melodious, though he can hear the potential for raucousness in it. Very incongruous, coming out of an animal that looks so angrily intent. And indeed, the owl seems done with socialising. "Hadn't we better get started?" Fair enough. He lifts the bird on height with his shoulder, where it settles quite impressively, claws only a little uncomfortable. Oh well, this shirt was in terrible shape anyway.