Fishing

Fishing

"Are you making fun me?" Lyryk scowled at the dog sitting behind her. His eyes were bright, and a canine grin split his muzzle. The bard sat at the edge of the stream, falling back when she tried to catch the fish that broke the thin line. The silvery form shot out of reach.

At the moment, the half-elf had a love-hate relationship with the mutt. After catching the first fish, Lyryk flipped it up to shore like she had done half a dozen times since the animal had found her. This time, instead of guarding it until she had caught several, the dog, who answered to "Biscuit," grinned his doggy grin, picked it up between his teeth, and ran off. Holding the wriggling and writhing creature just out of the bard's reach, his white muzzle split, tongue lolling to one side.

"You are making fun of me, you mangy mutt!" she lunged at him playfully, thinking he would give up the game easily.

The path hadn't been easy. Recent snowfall and frigid temperatures had complicated their journey north. Lyryk was tired, hungry, and in no mood to joke. Biscuit didn't give up, which raised her ire until she was too cold and frustrated to argue with him.

"Fine," she grumbled.

Turning back to the stream, she braided the thin sinew into something more sturdy and dropped a new hook into the water. Moments later, she landed a perch worthy of her appetite.

The dog sat up, dropping the smaller catch and sitting at attention.

"You have yours," Lyryk snickered as his ears drooped. "I might share," she winked at the dog, knowing he would get at least half. "If there's any left."