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Have you any idea why a raven is like a writing desk?
I haven't the slightest idea. Unfortunately, the brindle's striped friend seemed to have little to share with him in the way of finding friends in this new, strange land. In all honesty, it didn't seem to have anything at all to tell him; what was the matter? Was the bee shy? Was it mute, or simply ignorant to his words? Perhaps his breath was smelly... At the thought, Crowley was just about to apologize, until the insect suddenly spread it's wings and took flight, leaving the iris it once sat upon behind. "Thank you!" He called out, regardless of whether or not he had received an answer. But now, Crowley was all alone. With a deep, saddened sigh, he took to scanning the field that lay stretched out before him. It was truly beautiful here, this mountain that reached so high into the heavens. He was almost certain that he could stick his head up through the clouds above him and give a personal greeting to the Gods, if there were even such things in this strange new land. A thought crossed his mind then; if he did indeed, pop his head through the clouds to personally say hello to the reigning Gods of this land... Would they be freaked out? Afraid of his profound skill at finding them in the first place? A mental chuckle echoed through his mind, but then, any thoughts of scaring the local deities vanished from his mind. "Oh, a bat!" He exclaimed with a gasp, his golden eyes looking down upon the small black form that was suddenly in front of him. Such things were a rarity where he had come from, and Crowley was notorious for fawning over any sort of fuzzy little creature he happened to stumble across. The little one in front of him seemed just as intrigued as he was of him, and with a smile tugging once more at his dark lips, he dropped his head to get a better view of his newfound company. "Goodness, aren't you just the cutest little chap I've ever seen?" Outstretching his muzzle, the stallion allowed the bat to investigate if he so pleased. Crowley more than towered over the winged mammal, and the last thing he could fathom doing was scaring the poor thing away. [Anti-Crowley.] "blather blather blather" |
The Weaver's Workshop
HP: 45
