Duck Lake chromakey dreamcoat

Orson cackled and basked in the joy of it. She liked stirring things up, from bothering a few birds to destabilizing a nation (ok she hasn't done that yet but she has tried many times and that's why she's here instead of back home). It made things interesting. Like stirring your paw in a still lake.

The joy was brief lived, both in the uniqueness of it and the actual moment itself. A young man stalked towards her and Orson took a step back, startled by his presence. When she finally composed herself and began to read the man, she could sense something barely contained in him. Anger? Annoyance? Good if it's true, Orson thought. Cool? She said, canting her voice into a Scottish burr, her most common accent. Chargin' intae a bunch of wee birds isnae all that cool wee lad. The proper vocab found itself into place more easily than the other accents she tried to do; it was almost her native one.