[desc. unlocked when story has progressed enough]
This is a thing that I will update 1 phrase at a time. Feel free to feel free to feel free to feel the free
"LHHLLHLH" Was the first intelligible statement that happened across Pyronischemmerulianna's acute and astute mind, and as she pondered the plausibility of this statement, she wondered idly, in the back of her head, when the frickin' seagull would show up already. She was quite a gifted pangolin, who was more than adept at all of the falafel filosophy fog. This was not, however, the most pristine of her achievements.
Because unbeknownst to the common passerine, nor the charming gentlefowl, Pyronischemmerulianna secretly withheld an uncanny ability to perform with extreme excellence in rap battles. She'd never shared this fact about her to a soul, to escape the neighbors' stinky, stinky judgement.
She heard a knock-knock-knock on the door and skipped over to answer who she presumed was the frickin' seagull; but before she even got to the door, the gentle crash of jolly, jangling leaves echoed around the entire treehouse (which is obviously where this was taking place).
Splat.
A white-and-grey rolling blur stuck a rather hard landing on the woody wooden floor, with its neck at an irregular angle. If she had to describe it, she might've called it a "face-plant".
"Grrg," Said the frickin' seagull.
She offered him a ginger newt. He swallowed it in one gulp (of course he did). Then, springing up with the surprising agility you might expect from an olympic block of cheese, he strutted (lopsidedly) towards the take-off runway, which is a single, long branch of wood connected to the tree.
He missed and fell off the edge.
Pyronischemmerulianna heard the distant crunch of a seagull who had, presumably, fallen 70 wing-lengths off the edge of a tree-branch.
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