The Sunspire another day, another doug

“Elle,” he said with some difficulty, his tongue dumb and thick in his dry mouth. His voice sounded stuffy, and the wet-sounding snuffle that punctuated his sister’s nickname produced a fizzle of blood that soaked into the pale fur of his muzzle and dripped down his chin. “Come in here,” he ordered her, but all the syllables slurred together, giving him a horrendous accent to try to type — and you know how much I hate trying to type accents. It was kind of like, “c’m’n’r,” — like if you tried to say “commoner” but without any vowels.

His eyes rolled back, and his head followed suit in a manner that almost seemed dysphoric, but he held on — as much as he could — and mumbled something indecipherable.