Noctisardor Bypass life is about creating yourself.

He’s talking to himself.

His name is Fig and he’s talking to himself. Suddenly she’s not so concerned about being the mad one. But through a heedy leer it becomes apparent his jest is meant for whatever lurks beneath the glossy brook’s surface. She cranes against the reeds for a better look and though cannot see much afar the play of light, she’s endeared, and equally as entertained- is this how he whiles away the hours? Engaging with inarticulate things. She giggles.

And immediately flinches at her own omission, shoving her nose down between two forepaws and staring wide-eyed at the dirt, frozen still.

Did he hear? Did he not?

And which does she want?