Birch had grown accustomed to keeping her feelings hidden; Shaman had broken her of this habit to some extent - it was hard to stay aloof and stoic when life and love thrived all around you - but the ability to separate herself from her emotions came in handy. Now, for example, when her lips wanted so desperately to curve. The man, big though he was, made no effort to stop her as she collected her wayward papers and, though he even went so far as to stomp his foot a time or two in frustration, Birch felt no real threat emanating from him. Though she didn't speak the language he mumbled in, she could recognize the tone well enough to know he wasn't pleased with her.
Distraction came in the form of Rochambeau, scampering about his feet (apparently much to his annoyance). Always up for a game - even one he didn't understand - Ro gave a far more cheerful version of Jacopo's growl in return and pounced at a few of the papers that had managed to escape Birch's grasp. That urge to smile was bitten back again as the man looked up, outrage evident on his features, just as Birch approached. She could tell he wasn't a fan of the rambunctious otter, but anger typically bounced off the annoyingly cheerful beast.
Her brow flicked, the scar over her left eye pulling taut, as the man blustered and then, abruptly, stopped. Apparently thinking better of whatever it was he'd planned to say, he continued again after a moment. This time surprise wormed it's way through her facade; as the man turned away towards the door she and Roch traded confused looks. It wasn't what she'd expected, but... who could turn down the opportunity to check out their appealing, grouchy neighbor first hand? With a shrug, Birch trotted up his steps and followed him inside. Rochambeau scampered in after her, a wad of papers clutched in his jaws. Deciding to claim the coffee table, Birch spread out the papers in some sort of orderly fashion (wrestling the other papers free of Rochambeau in the process). That done, she stared at the crumpled mess and gave a dismayed sigh. She picked up the first piece of paper, rotated it a few times until she could make out which way the squiggles were supposed to go, and spoke aloud again.
"Do you have a name?" Birch asked, unable to keep some of the amusement from her voice. "And can you read crap handwriting?" |