Diaval looks around and makes a gurgling cooing sound--not quite sad, because he is still a wild raven and quite self-sufficient, thank you very much--but he is a little lost. He knows his mistress' magic now, after over a decade of it thrumming beneath his feathers, and he can't feel it anywhere nearby. Only that which he carried with him.

It's odd, after so long spent being her wings and eyes. He feels at loose ends. It's not exactly pleasant, like there's an itch he can't reach.

He ruffles his black feathers in agitation. It doesn't do much good at the moment to get worked up about it, as there's nothing at all he can do. He has not the slightest idea where he is or how to get back. May as well find out what he can.

He chatters a bit at the comment about what he'd say if he could talk--he is talking, it's not his fault that no one can understand--and hops into her outstretched hand, mindful of his rather sharp claws.