Peek...creep...sneak...peep....
Rushes rustle. Didn't look. Asleep? Yes, just...a frog, Fisherman. A toad in the reeds.
Closer. Bottles! Even better.
Pad pad pad, nearer now. Knife in hand. Strong smell of rum, good, good. No need for screaming or opinions, this time. Pull-a-part, like junker striders. Practice, practice!
Looming -if a gnome can be said to loom- up behind him. Raising the knife. Tense, readying, aiming, but- *SPLOOP*
A fish! Tricked by a tasty worm. Stupid fish! Worms live in dirt. A snort, a "Hm!" and a noisy clearing of the throat, followed by a spit and wet splat on a rock. What to do? Frozen, a bit.
He starts to pull the line. Soon the smallish dumb fish hangs glistening in the morning light, wiggling. "Hah!", he says. Reaches for a bottle, but it's empty. Paws around a bit, searching. Behind him. Not a bottle. A foot?
He gives the tiny foot a questioning squeeze, then turns to look. Strange thing to keep rum in, no? Sees her. "OH!" Starts to smile, maybe, but sees the knife. That lovely, amusing confused puzzled mug appears. "AAAAAAH!" and starts to scrabble back. Starts to. WANTS to. But the knife is windmilled around with a grin, ending up in the neck, sligtly upwardly, where it meets the jaw. A single scream, unneeded, but savored. Gifts seemed better when unexpected.
Eye lights go dim, he slides to one side, off the blade, slicing the neck on one side. Gills? A giggle.
Gurgle...grunt...bubble...sigh....Quickly, now! The armored familiar appears in a flash. Grabs his collar and follows her.
Rushes rustle, rustle, rustle. Flattened or uprooted. Tromp and drag. A herd of toads! Fifty frogs. She'd snagged a well-worn booklet from atop his pack, because the gilt-leaf fish picture, that hadn't flaked completely away, had caught her eye. How to, how to. Scale. Dress. Gut. Filet. Dinner as well? Human, fish. Compare, contrast. Research and repast!
Giggle...chop...chuckle...burp....
Rushes rustle. Didn't look. Asleep? Yes, just...a frog, Fisherman. A toad in the reeds.
Closer. Bottles! Even better.
Pad pad pad, nearer now. Knife in hand. Strong smell of rum, good, good. No need for screaming or opinions, this time. Pull-a-part, like junker striders. Practice, practice!
Looming -if a gnome can be said to loom- up behind him. Raising the knife. Tense, readying, aiming, but- *SPLOOP*
A fish! Tricked by a tasty worm. Stupid fish! Worms live in dirt. A snort, a "Hm!" and a noisy clearing of the throat, followed by a spit and wet splat on a rock. What to do? Frozen, a bit.
He starts to pull the line. Soon the smallish dumb fish hangs glistening in the morning light, wiggling. "Hah!", he says. Reaches for a bottle, but it's empty. Paws around a bit, searching. Behind him. Not a bottle. A foot?
He gives the tiny foot a questioning squeeze, then turns to look. Strange thing to keep rum in, no? Sees her. "OH!" Starts to smile, maybe, but sees the knife. That lovely, amusing confused puzzled mug appears. "AAAAAAH!" and starts to scrabble back. Starts to. WANTS to. But the knife is windmilled around with a grin, ending up in the neck, sligtly upwardly, where it meets the jaw. A single scream, unneeded, but savored. Gifts seemed better when unexpected.
Eye lights go dim, he slides to one side, off the blade, slicing the neck on one side. Gills? A giggle.
Gurgle...grunt...bubble...sigh....Quickly, now! The armored familiar appears in a flash. Grabs his collar and follows her.
Rushes rustle, rustle, rustle. Flattened or uprooted. Tromp and drag. A herd of toads! Fifty frogs. She'd snagged a well-worn booklet from atop his pack, because the gilt-leaf fish picture, that hadn't flaked completely away, had caught her eye. How to, how to. Scale. Dress. Gut. Filet. Dinner as well? Human, fish. Compare, contrast. Research and repast!
Giggle...chop...chuckle...burp....
