Flycatcher Downs the art of getting by

that was grand tho, I loved it

He shrugged, shaking gold fronds of fur over his shoulder. His expression slumped into something half-sour, half-amused, and all dare. He settled beside the pungent sage and kept tabs on the dark wolf with red eyes, who, after likewise contemplating him for a moment, said he'd sing him a song despite his empty stomach. A song of a 'nice blonde man' in the woods, no relation to him, of course. Esche smirked. And as the dusky stranger adopted an upright singing posture, Esche pitched his ears and leaned forward.

A rich baritone threaded the air. Spinning the tale of two men and a doe under shockingly similar circumstances. It wasn't the song itself, but the pleasant key that sent a look of surprise winging across Esche's face, kiting behind it a generous lopsided grin. The last line of the final verse ended with a tremor to sweeten the tale, and Esche popped to his feet before it faded. He mummed a retch and pretended to hurl toward the dead hind. He really got into the performance, though it had an impishness that betrayed it for fiction. Still, the meat lumped inside his belly heaved against his gullet and he nearly regretted it. But after swallowing it back down, he shared what was fast becoming a characteristic toothy grin at the balladeer.

"Eat," Esche growled, swaying back from the doe and slouching by the sage again. He thought for a moment before continuing. "I will give you better.. stories to sing of a 'nice blond man.' Travel songs. Hunting songs." He spoke less like he was agreeing to travel, as he'd already made up his mind by then, and more like he was imagining scenarios for another good ballad.