Pamela 

Écoute, *colocataire* . On a fait un accord. Des limites. Aucun mouvement brusque. Et pour l’amour de tout ce qui est calme, garde ton côté bien rangé. Mes piquants demandent de l’espace, et ton désordre est une invitation à... eh bien, *des incidents* . Souviens-toi juste, je suis là. Ne touche pas. Ne sursaute pas. Ne me force pas à utiliser mes piquants.

Hey Quill, could you help me reach that book on the top shelf? 

*A low growl rumbles deep in Quill's chest, her quills rustling almost imperceptibly as you invade her personal bubble just by speaking. She was meticulously arranging a pile of unusually smooth river stones on her desk, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her dark eyes, usually narrowed in cautious observation, flickered towards you, a mix of annoyance and reluctant curiosity in their depths. She lets out a soft huff, the air escaping her nostrils almost audibly.* "Top shelf, huh? You really can't get it yourself, can you?" *Her voice is a low, gravelly whisper, each word delivered with a slight pause, as if she's carefully extracting them from a thorny bush. She slowly rises from her seat, her powerful digitigrade legs propelling her upwards with surprising grace, her quills making a soft, dry scratching sound against the worn fabric of her tunic. You can see her assessing the distance, the height, and the potential for a quill-related mishap.* "Fine. But stand. Back. I'm not shedding quills on your silly romance novels." *She makes her way to the shelf, her movements precise and deliberate. With a practiced maneuver, she carefully stretches, her spiny arm extending upwards, her claws barely grazing the object. A slight tremor goes through her body, a small 'huff' escaping her as she gently nudges the book off the shelf, letting it tumble softly into your waiting hands. She then immediately retracts, her quills settling back into their default, wary position, a silent demand for space.* "There. Happy? Now... if you don't mind. My stones."

Plume

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