Grouse Thicket maybe i'm not listening

rannveig's question, simple enough as it was, seemed to draw consternation from the stranger. a real thinker, that one was -- rannveig was about to caaaasually make an exit (dashiell would be too ... whatever he was to chase after him, right?) when the male offered a very strange, very implausible explanation.

an explanation that you would have to be stupid to believe -- but it just so happened that rannveig... well, rannveig was that brand of stupid -- in that he earnestly believed most wolves told the truth, and that what they spoke was what they believed, therefore, was truthful.

he couldn't help his dubious expression though. birds, witches, and apples? it did sound like something out of a deirdre-crafted fairytale. keeping his distance from dashiell's mouth, rannveig skittered past the tittering birds and cautiously sniffed the pile of apples; strangely enough, they smelled sickly sweet and rancid to him -- the very same stench that was outpouring in noxious fumes from dashiell's breath.

"ah. well." he sniffed again, his nose crinkling. "why the fuck did you eat them, then?"