"Squawk?" clacked the Raven, trying to look unthreatening, and friendly, and cuddly, which is a problem if nature has fitted you out in greasy feathers and decided you should wear basic bad-guy black.
"Not a chance!" said the Fusilier, and: BLAM. He blew the Raven into a cloud of feathers the would have been the makings of a very stylish feather duster if your tastes leaned to the stricter end of the Goth spectrum.
Hah! He got pwned! Too made the Raven is eternal...