Rog awoke to behold a buttery yellow puff of cloud migrating across a very small patch of sky. His temples ached and he had a monstrous thirst, but he smiled anyhow. He loved clouds. He loved them because they reminded of his favorite thing - rocks. The little wispy ones were like pebbles rolling about a riverbank, and the big ones were like the boulders that his people sought out for Home Burrowing. The cloud drifted from view, and Rog’s spirits darkened. He massaged his bulbous eyes, and let out a yawn that caused a maddening tickle in his parched throat. He waited for another cloud to show itself through the hole in the ceiling. Why did the ceiling of his room have a hole in it? Why was there another hole of similar size in the wall three feet above his headboard? Rog spirits lifted once more. It had occurred to him that the holes were just the size of his favorite paradiddle rock. He drew on his sparkling entertainer’s clothes, and made his way downstairs in search of water.
“Good morning!” Rog greeted the barroom’s only other occupant.
Sutha would not allow the colorfully dressed gnome the satisfaction of knowing he and startled her.
“Hello…. How did….” she spoke slowly. The shepherd’s language gave her tongue trouble.
“I’m Rog!”
Rog’s cheery affect and diminutive size reminded Sutha of Hadraniel. She wondered if they might be the same creature. Perhaps after retiring last night, it had washed off its silly makeup and donned fools’ clothes.
“How did you get in?” she asked it. It blinked its stupid, buggy eyes.
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“Well, I slept here!” it chirped. “I’m very, very thirsty…” it whined. It bothered Sutha that humans believed this type of animal to be cute. To her it was repulsive. “Will you help me with some water…?”
The sun had begun to rise, and it was time to wake Mr. Cross. Sutha ignored the whining thing tugging at her bootstrap, and made her way upstairs.
It didn’t bother Rog that the saloon’s beastly guard had ignored him. It did bother him that he still hadn’t any water. He clambered onto a barstool. The stool clattered to the cobblestone-strewn floor as he vaulted onto the bar. He knew what he had to do. He would build up as much speed as he could, then launch himself at the water keg built into the Magma’s back wall. It would be a very long jump for him, but he had no fear. He also had very little brains.
Mr. Cross’ and his motley crew rushed downstairs towards a racket of breaking glass. They prepared for the very worst. Had another possessed man come hurtling through another window? Perhaps the midnight caravan was full of possessed men and women. Would they be more aggressive than Tommy had been? It came as a great relief to them that the glass in question came not from a window, but from an antique set of shot glasses Rog had knocked from the drying rack. The stupid little thing had brained itself on the counter, and sat reeling in a mess of broken glass.
Riggs drew a glass of water for Rog while Mr. Cross performed a small feat of chronomantic mending on each shattered dish. By the time Cecilia answered the summons of breaking glass, Cross had arranged the repaired antiques neatly on an empty shelf. He continued to unload the dish rack.
“Any news of Tommy?” Cecilia wanted to know.
“No ma’am.” Mr. Cross replied. “But there’s no need to worry. We’ll go check on ‘em for ye.”
Cross didn’t have to check over his shoulder to know that his friends were loitering about like a bunch of morons.
“Won’t we?”