Sawtooth Spire dear god: thanks, if you loved me the vegetables would be extinct

even if not for the indisputable fact that phaedra didn’t take commands, the desperate whisper of stag’s plea for her to put a sock in it fell on literally deaf ears. her chirruping trebled, as the condition of its ceasing had yet to be met. 
the stormcloud eased back towards the belly of the den, regardless, sensing tension in the air—if anything could command her it would be instinct insisting itself into her actions, and only with disaffection did she defer to what it bade of her. 
while the weedy scaramouch paced outside and tried to find a way to reconcile and cope with his conflicted boyclown feelings or whatever, going so far as to contemplate with audacity the idea of placing his grody mouth upon her and slinging her hearthside, phaedra had battened down her crying and drew her nose to the airspace to forecast the breeze that swept down the den with a milk connoisseur’s—ahem, or cultist’s—aplomb, observing succulence on the palate that hadn’t been there before.
hurry up would you! i’m famished! she mewed, none the wiser to the blitzkrieg unfolding on her doorstep.