It is now day five of pretending to be a bird.
Regardless of my careful rationing I am now running out of, well, rations. Another day or two stuck up here and I think I shall begin to starve. That, of course, is nothing new to me but living nostalgia is not always a good plan. I would really rather keep eating my scant meals.
With that in mind, I decided that it would be a good idea to move. The normal mode of transport - my feet combined with the floor - being out of the question, I thought to take the only route available to me. Slowly, and with extreme caution, I have been making my way from tree to tree via the nearest branches. This has resulted in some hair-raising moments involving groaning boughs and the occasional short period of time spent dangling from a limb by my hands whilst my unfortunately faithful side-kick jumps up and down trying to snap his teeth about my ankles. No doubt it would have made for quite an amusing show to any passers-by, but it was not much fun for me.
My endevours in woodland locomotion were going quite well until I found myself in one that had no other close neighbors. Luckily for me, what it does have is a lot of almost-ripe conkers so I have since put them to use as projectiles.
I must admit that I have rather enjoyed pelting my quadrupedal stalker with these spike-encased nuts. It has kept me highly entertained. My hope is to drive the warg away by this means, although I would be the first to admit that the chances are slim. Thus far I have only succeeded in annoying it.
Still, what am I? Trev Gallorg or mouse?
Well, neither really regardless of my heritage. I am simply myself and that pretty much amounts to being tiny, harmless and not all that much use unless someone needs a sock darned. Back to throwing conkers then.
