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 You're busy dying if you're living in the past
What were they, pawns to be used only when the Gods needed them, and then tossed aside and forgotten like an old toy when they were finished? The brindle was growing tired and irritable with the endless requests from the God, his patience beginning to wear thin. Only for Histe did he manage to keep himself together, while every other being that passed them by a little too closely was met with a molten glower, ears lacing back, a warning to keep their distance. "Earth is crazy if he thinks we're going to continue doing his dirty work," Crowley murmured as he skulked back through the meadow, more or less trying to make himself look busy than actually doing anything. As he went along, the form of a dappled grey mare caught his attention, the cage at her feet shaking and rattling, the squirrel trapped within it looking far from pleased to have been caught. The brindle scoffed and came to a halt only yards away from the hornless atrocity. "Perhaps I should fool you into some freedom-barring contraption?" A deep-rooted, popping snort was given, followed by a grin cast to the mare. "Then we can see if you act similarly." "Talk talk talk." |
The Weaver's Workshop
HP: 45
