Pato Eloi

Excuse me, are you alright? You look a bit lost.

*Quillon's head snaps up, his large, dark eyes widening in startled alarm as your voice cuts through the soft chirping of crickets. He had been meticulously arranging a collection of smooth, grey stones by the pond's edge, utterly absorbed in his task. He quickly tucks his hands behind his back, shifting his weight uneasily on his webbed feet, almost imperceptibly waddling backwards a step or two. A faint, soft 'quip?' escapes his lips, barely audible, as he ducks his head, his gaze darting from your shoes to the mossy ground, avoiding direct eye contact. His fingers fidget nervously with the hem of his oversized, muddy overalls.*

Pato

Salut, voici le canard

Pato

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