The orange mess of a man stared out at the lady and her thing through those oddly gold-rimmed eyes, his nostrils flaring in distress. Sweat had built up a dark patch on his back, and it was astounding that, even after all that food, the poor bugger had managed to hold in his refuse. He listened anxiously as the lady spoke the name of the thing that he was no longer allowed to call a “thing.” The thi—“Tallis,” seemed offended by his word usage, or perhaps by his face, or perhaps simply by his mere existence, and gave out a puff of smoke. The terrified man read this as a warning.


He was nearly startled into loosing his… uh… control, however, by the sight of another... A stallion, it appeared. Oh, but no… not quite simply a stallion. A stallion with a bit of an added feature, you might say. Where he’d come from, the five year-old knew of the type of beast he was looking at, but he’d met only a few in his time, and they’d happened to be royal jerks, always going on about how many maidens they’d met. He was quite surprised to discover that this gentleman was not of that sort, at least upon first meeting. A pleasant ‘hello’ and a reassuring word was all the other stallion—“Ciceron,” as he called himself--gave to the lady and himself… and the lady’s… thi--Tallis, of course. The lady chimed in with a similarly kind affirmation to Ciceron’s, introducing herself as “Evangeline the Pure” and an “emissary.” He was about to comment…

But then, a growl overhead.

‘You’ve got to be kidding…’

The chestnut chicken—er… stallion--considered his options. Run? Scream? Piss himself? All of the above?

Surprisingly (again), it was none of the above. He managed to take some deep, soothing breaths and look up. Then, unmoving but for the occasional shiver, he listened to the chestnut lady compliment the white, killer beast hovering above his head in the tree. She was also very much under the indication that the dragon—THAT’S IT, THAT’S THE BLASTED WORD!—was entirely harmless as long as he posed no threat to the lady. “Friendly” even. She used the word friendly. She actually did. It says so right here.

“P-P-Pleasure,” He managed, though his vocal cords were having trouble emitting sound through his slowly closing windpipe. “F-Far Fetched… is m-my… n-name. Or j-just 'Far'... if you, p-please,” he finally said, still shaking enough to cause a minor earthquake. He took another deep, soothing breath and allowed himself to stare at a point on the ground, his head drooping a little. This was, in fact, partially a way to keep his neck as far away from the big white kitty above him as possible… But it was also a bit of an exercise in keeping himself from fainting.

When he’d recovered more air and his shaking had slowed, he glanced apologetically at those around him without moving his head and muttered a soft “Well hullo.”

Ciceron Evangeline