guns for hands

Spectra had far more chutzpah than Aesop could manage, her energy seemingly boundless. He attributed it to her fresh legs, as he had already been going at it when she arrived. Fatigue had had a headstart on him, but he would be fine after a bit of a break.

Half of the time, while digging, Aesop worked on actually digging through the earth. The rest of the time he spent pushing the dirt into a neat pile, crowded up against the base of the living tree. Once a large pile accumulated behind them, he would relocate it. Rinse, repeat, until they had the large, wide hole in the earth that now yawned before them, moss hanging down over it. It was nice, homey, he thought. It had a certain aesthetic, if you asked him.

Which is exactly what Spectra did. He hummed, pausing in his licking to think. "Hmm. I'm likin' it. 's got a certain... je ne sais quoi to it. A good home, I'm thinkin'. What about you? s' as much the fruit of your labor as it is mine." The French sounded awkward in his voice, his own strong accent clashing with the smooth language. Once he had spoken, he resumed nibbling and licking at his paws in an attempt to free some of the dirt from his claws.