Grouse Thicket no more innocence left to spill

His mirth was immediately cut short when a voice called out near him; his gaze seemed electrified momentarily in the way that it snapped to the figure. It had been a long time since he heard someone else that wasn’t his bróðir that he questioned the validity of its reality. Which, given the bizarre shape and markings of the figure before him, only pressed this along further.

They were a very peculiar, curious thing in a way he could not quite place. Even so he bristled at the sight of them, a growl bubbling low in his chest as he rose to his full height. His lips pulled back briefly, their tongue lost on him in the rush of adrenaline. The bits and pieces came to him though and their demeanor was nonthreatening, so that curled lipped expression turned into a grotesque grin perfect for a wonderland Cheshire. Only he was not a pretty little kitty with riddles.

“Neither would you,” came his accented refrain, every bit as ugly and as raspy as his laugh. “But this one will make an exception for pretty little thing, yes.” His gaze bore into them, unrelenting, trying to assess the worth of their character in an instant. Perhaps this would be the point where they would rise to challenge him and thrill him, or perhaps they would run away and he would chase them, too.

He made his proposal: “Would pretty little frú like to see?”