#pooroldsharik

This wasn’t anything like home where the trees sprung up with a great, flourish of greenery. Everything here was gnarled and bent. As if a fire had scorched the very soul of this forest and left behind the ashen husk.

I’m very scared. I feel the strangeness of this place creeping onto my fur. Darya chuffed and whined at the woman.

My legs desperately want to run, but I wouldn’t know where to go.  

   You never know what you can meet in the forest. This didn't apply to ordinary animals, for example, deer, hares, foxes, birds and others. When Ivakir felt that someone was watching her, and then heard a noise in the bushes, she immediately tensed. The forest was a big mystery to her, she never met its living inhabitants. Until this day.

   It turned out to be a dog.

   Ivakir stared at it, as if the dog had a few extra legs or another pair of eyes. She learned a long time ago that you should never trust what you can see here. She stood with her hands clenched into fists, obviously afraid to approach the animal. Another illusion or the child of this forest?

The creature appeared nervous, but not exactly feral, and Vulpes could see that its focus remained on his food. The touch had been experimental; if it had turned aggressive, Vulpes would have quickly put it out of its misery. Instead, he found himself tempted to feed it.

“Ave, viator.”

He could easily guess that the creature would enjoy this meal more than he would. He had cooked the iguana bits carefully over his campfire, but had still hesitated to try them. Having walked east all day after a long mission, Vulpes still lacked the stomach for anything more than powdered instamash. Such was typically the case after the constant stress and perils of trekking the wastes, spiting the profligates, and escaping back to Cottonwood, all on an empty stomach to avoid making himself sick at a critical time.

The dog had waited patiently, and Vulpes decided to indulge it.

“I suppose this should be yours,” he said, as he pulled the meat from its skewer and placed it on the ground between them. Then he rifled through the small bag next to his campfire, producing another box of Instamash.

          there are many who would say that the king-in-exile was an  UNPLEASANT  dwarf,  foul of temper and of tongue,  with a noble bearing that commanded respect that some would argue he did not deserve.     and he is indeed unpleasant  ——  to those who deserve it.     a kindly dog,  however,  was no such creature;   a smile breaks across the dwarf’s stern façade,  and he adjusts the pack on his back before he reaches out to allow her to have a sniff of well worn fingers.     she seems to have found the dried venison he’d been keeping in his pocket;   the old dwarf had been saving it for a traveling snack,  but as he’d made it to bree without need of it,  he is happy to spare it for the dog.