If you're a blacksmith, probably the proudest day of your life is when you get your first anvil. How innocent you are, little blacksmith.
Let’s get this straight: Satty is a pretty big optimist. Which is fair. For one thing, despite nature and pretty much every law in existence decreeing he should be dead, he is actually pretty alive. For another, he had one (1) kid which mean that someone actually let him Do It with them which was a pretty big deal and very brave of her.
(AN: that kid was played by Myth and we miss her every day.)
That being said, the broadly enigmatic stag did not antedate a rejoinder as he oscillated enthusiastically betwixt straightforward writing and whacked out (“convoluted” or “torturous”) purple prose that depended largely on Microsoft Word’s synonym power.
(Translation: dude didn’t ‘quite’ expect the tree to flirt back.)
The branch smacks against his overly large head and he yelps a little bit, albeit in a very manly way. Some of the leaves remain in his mane like jewels, if jewels were dry and crunchy, which maybe they are, in some parallel universe.
He shakes his head as if to clear it (though there was very little to clear). Then he smiles again, coming to the obvious conclusion:
The tree was into some kinky shit.
But Satty is a Gentleman, so he doesn’t dive right into that, because this author may have written historical RPF smut but she is not about to get kinky with a tree (yet).
Anyway (@self: nice transition) he smiles. Reading back on what I wrote like two minutes ago we already established he was smiling but sometimes the backspace bar is cool in theory, not practice.
“My name’s Satire, but you can call me Satty,” he tells the tree, because this is how things are now.
#eloquence
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