Quoted By:
"Oh." Earl doesn't prove him wrong. You feel your wrist. "Does he know who he is? Does he recognize...?"
"I deal with this secondhand. Magicians seem well in control of themselves, but this was far from ideal circumstances—"
"He's not a magician," you say.
"Yes, and that. A bad concoction. Better than the shoulder... we must assume." Henry stretches his fingers out toward Earl's heaving chest, but withdraws at a growl. "I don't think he cares for me."
"He doesn't know who you are. He's never met... you've never met him before, right?"
"I haven't."
"He's probably... confused." You don't know how he is. You don't know if he can feel much of anything. You're just saying stuff. "Or scared. Or both. And you're some stranger, and you're wearing scary robes, and you probably smell like disgusting cult stuff. Here." Positive thinking! You lay your own hand on Earl's chest before you can convince yourself otherwise.
It's warm. And rough— it doesn't feel like person skin anymore, not really, even if the color's mainly the same. There's little microscopic scales. Or whatever. You'd rather not think about it. Earl's noise has upshifted into more of a purr-type thing than a growl-type thing, and his big head has leaned down— you try to keep your eyes off the face— and suddenly he's pawing at <span class="mu-i">you,</span> his flattened plate-size claw-hand coming at your face, not forcefully, with mild curiosity.
"Oof," you say. "Ow, I— I— stoppit— Earl!" You duck away. Up above, he's baring his teeth— grinning?
Rrrr, he says.
"God, I—" You glance at Henry, who's maintaining a distance. "Earl? You know who I am?"
"I'd say so, kiddo. Do you have him domesticated?" Henry offers you a space next to him. You glower. "I mean, will he listen to you? I'd rather not have your friend roaming free in here, given the..."
A decent point, hatefully. You straighten up all casual-like, as if you were going to do that exact thing without him saying anything (and of course you were), and clear your throat. "Um, Earl?"
Round black eyes on you.
"Could you... go over there? There." In a broad sweep, you point to the other end of the chamber. "Go? Go!"
It takes a second of processing, but then he's off. His awkward body is only a little less ungainly in motion— part lope, part shuffle, he often balances himself by his fingers. At the other end, he skids to a halt and swivels to face you.
You hesitate. "Um, sit... lay down? Could you lay down? LAY—" You point downward.
He flops onto his side, apparently unconcerned by the rough stone, and stays there.
"Ah!" Henry says. "Charming."
"He's better when he can talk," you mumble.
"Oh, I'm certain. But for the circumstances, a level of docility..." Henry hesitates. "It beats the alternative, is what I'll say. Not that I believe he would pose a large threat to you or me, but it wouldn't be pleasant, especially after you—"
(2/4)
