Iktome Plains no snow here

My brain has turned to mashed potatoes.

“You cannot speak,” realized the Ansbjørn boy, his sonorous timbre made small and frail by the weight of his discovery, and Coelacanth ached for the fumbling, faltering way he backpedaled and redirected in a brave attempt to soothe her hurts. She, in turn, set tongue to teeth and softly sighed — “shh,” she whispered as comfortingly as she could, her ink-feathered tail scribbling a note of goodwill, fluttering against her slim hocks with a flourish that hinted at apology. Her bright seablue eyes were warm and hopeful as they regarded the nameless bard who assumed the posture of an acolyte before his goddess and crawled toward her with thickly-furred ears nestled tightly against his skull. He offered her anew the things she craved, this time devoid of price — “A story, then? Or another song?” — and she gave him one glad pirouette, a deft twist of catlike paws, before leading him westward toward the river. It was not her river, but it would suffice in cooling his sunscorched paws. There would be time enough for songs and stories when she had seen to his comfort.

With a final forlorn glance at Amoxtli’s collection of shells, the atramentous sheepdog cross led her rime-eyed companion across the plains and through the moors, the occasional tree or shrub affording ample shade for his tender pads. She stopped only when she reached the river, finding a tranquil bend where the bottom was soft mud and moss instead of grating stone. Slowly, with great deliberation, she repeated the gestures that had seemed to convince him to come with her: circling around him, bounding toward the river, then turning to face him as she backed carefully into it. A toneless whuff leapt invitingly from her jaws, her coral pink tongue lolling as she wriggled appealingly before him. Come here, she thought at him as loudly as she could. Her tiny form left more than enough room for him to dip his paws in, if he was not inclined to fully submerge himself.