Biscuit

Biscuit

The path wound around the rock formations. Judging that late afternoon was approaching, Lyryk searched for a suitable place to sleep for the night, ruing the loss of her four-legged companion, Biscuit. The bard hadn't seen the hound in weeks, the dog having wandered off one day.

She swore she felt and heard his presence, though. When he'd traveled with the young half-elf, her "head-music," as she'd come to call her talent, carried harmony that hadn't existed before. When Biscuit left, so did the tune--mostly. She learned to listen for the subtle tones that told her the hound was near.

Harmonious undertones wafted through her consciousness as she rounded the rocks. Gasping at the glorious golden glow of the sun setting over the verdant valley, the bard sat, pulling her wooden flute from her pack. As Lyryk contemplated the majesty invoked by the scene before her, the rhythm she thought of as "Biscuit" enveloped hers.

Safe here, came a thought not her own.

Smiling, the bard set the instrument to her lips, closed her eyes, and began playing an accompaniment to "Biscuit." The world melted away, and when she opened her eyes again, she found herself ... elsewhere.

The hound sat before her, eyes closed, tongue lolling, a canine smile on his upturned face.

Missed you.

"I missed you, too, Buddy," said the half-elf, reaching over and scratching his ears. "Where are we?" she asked, looking around. Lyryk still heard the music, though she was no longer blowing into her flute.

My home came the reply.

"Ah."

I keep you safe, sleep.

With that, Lyryk fell into a deep, restful slumber, wrapped in the warmth of his presence.