Chitter, chitter, chitter, squeak, chitter, squeak.
The lone midlander crossing the cobblestones at Oschon's Embrace heaved a sigh as he adjusted his rucksack, shifting its weight over his right shoulder. He paused for a moment to stare at the sky and the setting sun. Satisfied, he then glanced back and down at his heel with a scowl.
"Sod off," he growled. "Git."
Squeak, chitter, chitter, squeak, squeak, chitter.
Damnable. The rutting bastard, he had to admit, was a rather cute little beast: large beady eyes, buckteeth, a small coat of fur that looked like it would prove soft to the touch, a large fluffy tail... recipe for disaster. And the way it wriggled its nose up at him....
Kanaria'd love this.
He had picked up the tail, so to speak, back at the warehouse in Candlekeep Quay, and the tiny fellow - who, on second thought, wasn't really all that tiny, being the size of his own head - had picked up a prize somewhere along the way. Looked like an acorn or some such thing.
The midlander turned and knelt, drawing a knife and brandishing the blade in front of the nutkin's face.
"See this? If y'keep this up, I'll have no choice but t'skin you and have me some mittens made out o' your pelt."
The nutkin stared up at him with wide gleaming eyes, sniffed twice, spared a glance for the knife, then set its prize by the man's grip, clambered atop the acorn, leaned against his fingers, and sniffed his hand and the hilt, chittering all the while.
Osric Melkire hung his head in defeat. He perked up at a sudden breeze that carried the fresh coastal air to him, and took his time in looking about. He'd been born here, more or less, five-and-twenty cycles ago, long before the destruction wrought by the Calamity had severed the Gods' Grip from La Noscea and forced the Lominsans to construct the Embrace. Though the moon had been wrong for it, his parents had chosen to consecrate their first-born son to Oschon, god of wanderers, for they'd been their way to the Torch when he'd arrived. He huffed a breath, now, an age and a lifetime later.Â
"I ain't religious... but if the Old Man sent you, it'd be damned inconsiderate and ungrateful t'turn you away. So come on, then." He loosened his grip just enough to waggle his first two fingers. "If I'm t'be stuck with you, better that y'don't slow me down."
The little beast squeaked an affirmative, climbed onto his fist, turned around to pick up the acorn, then proceeded to use it as a front leg to scramble up his arm and come to a rest atop his shoulder.
The midlander rose and readjusted his rucksack.
"I hope Jasper eats you, little poet king."
Chitter, chitter, squeak, squeak, chitter, chitter.
The lone midlander crossing the cobblestones at Oschon's Embrace heaved a sigh as he adjusted his rucksack, shifting its weight over his right shoulder. He paused for a moment to stare at the sky and the setting sun. Satisfied, he then glanced back and down at his heel with a scowl.
"Sod off," he growled. "Git."
Squeak, chitter, chitter, squeak, squeak, chitter.
Damnable. The rutting bastard, he had to admit, was a rather cute little beast: large beady eyes, buckteeth, a small coat of fur that looked like it would prove soft to the touch, a large fluffy tail... recipe for disaster. And the way it wriggled its nose up at him....
Kanaria'd love this.
He had picked up the tail, so to speak, back at the warehouse in Candlekeep Quay, and the tiny fellow - who, on second thought, wasn't really all that tiny, being the size of his own head - had picked up a prize somewhere along the way. Looked like an acorn or some such thing.
The midlander turned and knelt, drawing a knife and brandishing the blade in front of the nutkin's face.
"See this? If y'keep this up, I'll have no choice but t'skin you and have me some mittens made out o' your pelt."
The nutkin stared up at him with wide gleaming eyes, sniffed twice, spared a glance for the knife, then set its prize by the man's grip, clambered atop the acorn, leaned against his fingers, and sniffed his hand and the hilt, chittering all the while.
Osric Melkire hung his head in defeat. He perked up at a sudden breeze that carried the fresh coastal air to him, and took his time in looking about. He'd been born here, more or less, five-and-twenty cycles ago, long before the destruction wrought by the Calamity had severed the Gods' Grip from La Noscea and forced the Lominsans to construct the Embrace. Though the moon had been wrong for it, his parents had chosen to consecrate their first-born son to Oschon, god of wanderers, for they'd been their way to the Torch when he'd arrived. He huffed a breath, now, an age and a lifetime later.Â
"I ain't religious... but if the Old Man sent you, it'd be damned inconsiderate and ungrateful t'turn you away. So come on, then." He loosened his grip just enough to waggle his first two fingers. "If I'm t'be stuck with you, better that y'don't slow me down."
The little beast squeaked an affirmative, climbed onto his fist, turned around to pick up the acorn, then proceeded to use it as a front leg to scramble up his arm and come to a rest atop his shoulder.
The midlander rose and readjusted his rucksack.
"I hope Jasper eats you, little poet king."
Chitter, chitter, squeak, squeak, chitter, chitter.
![[Image: 1qVSsTp.png]](http://i.imgur.com/1qVSsTp.png)
