[complete] I have presents

[Dretch]

     

DRETCH

... and from your lips she drew your hallelujah

The sound of her laughter swells around them, echoing from the shadows of the surrounding forest and the empty mouths of the elk. She does nothing to hide her discomfort, shifting her weight from one foot to the other, ears finding themselves buried among the dreadlocked knots of her mane. Her gaze jumps from one spot to another until the sound fades, the hairs along her spine raised at the eerie familiarity of his trick. Ducking her head, she peers at him out of the corner of her eyes. “High standards? Hardly.” Her tone nearly uncovers the self-deprecation, the sense of hopelessness that has been a constant companion for as long as her memory stretches …   She wakes with a start. She always had the most vivid dreams, an intermix of memories real and imagined, when she occupies the smallest creatures’ forms; as if by nature their small stature requires they dream bigger and bolder than those greater than they. Yawning wide, she stretches out two small, leathery wings before clamping them tightly back against herself when the chilly morning air of the Mountain hits her.   A small figure passes beneath Bat-Dretch. It is a very odd figure, made even odder by her upside-down vantage point. She blinks owlishly, shifting her vision to her own and craning her neck as she tries to sus out what exactly she’s looking at … “Presents!” he squeak-shouts, startling her. Tiny claws let loose of the branch she’d roosted in for the evening – Bat-Dretch doesn’t have to hunt at night like real-bats do – and she plummets to the earth, shifting to her favorite form as she does. She is fascinated, not by the fact that he walks on two legs, wears a hat, and has a trash-treasure trove in a pile next to him, but that he speaks aloud. Her familiarity with the Mountain, and it’s intrinsic magical properties, is next to nothing. Where she comes from, fox do not speak aloud ... but he’s not quite a fox, is he? Largely unencumbered by the adventure-dulling properties of caution and well-being, the grey-eyed mare steps closer. “Would you like one?” he asks the first, the second, and then Dretch. She chuffs quietly, nostrils flaring with the motion. “I would like a present …,” she replies slowly, her gaze shifting to the pile of random bits next to him and then back to the fox-creature again. In vain, she searches his alien features for some sign of deception (foxes are known to be tricky, you see). “But what do you want in exchange?” She’s never received anything without the expectation of something in return – so, by definition, has never received a present before – and it does not occur to her that this time might be different.

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