The sketches and calculations stuck to his cheek unceremoniously, falling away like dead leaves as he jolted away from his desk. Deep in the recesses of the Evryman hill, surrounded by the oldest tomes he owned, John the Halfling had found exactly what he was going to do.

Tinkering was in the Evryman family’s blood, and there were more than a few portraits of Wizard Deputies hanging throughout the hill -- each displaying their own particular creation.

His father was such a one, sending out and receiving paper parcels that held order specifications and rare parts. And Edmund Evryman would retreat into the room his son now sat in, and he would work….and work...and work…the monotony punctuated every once in a while by an explosion of blue powder and backlash magic.

A gentle knock at the door, followed by a slip of paper underneath it broke John once and for all out of his reverie. He stood from his chair, arms and legs and back aching from the awkward sleeping position, and bent down to pick up the paper.

John,

I am leaving, the beehive is bothering my sparrows.

Do NOT forget the egg.

Love,

Chestnut

A long sigh escaped him. He had forgotten the egg. And in honesty, he’d never been fond of the things that were birthed from such strange, magic, eggs. Would it need any more care than just...watching?

His answer was on the kitchen table, a meticulous set of notes left by a meticulous (read: manic) mind. He felt the headache coming on strong. If the first set of questions, what he was going to do with it right now could be so easily answered, why couldn't the second set: what was he going to do with it...in general?

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Sell it at the market? Then people would tack “egg-stealer” onto his already precarious reputation, and even John knew that following "orc-killer" so quickly with hot gossip was beyond foolish.

“But no, I say -- I came across this egg fair and square.” He grumbled, crouching in front of the egg and flicking the blanket away from it. It picked up a glimmer from the firelight, an obvious greeting. He frowned. Simple eggs did not greet people.

“You are a problem, I’ll have you know.” He started, tilting the egg slightly out of the basket to take in its full proportions. Large, at least for his size, hitting mid-thigh. He estimated a foot in height, though it was rather...fat.

“What sort of egg are you?” He turned it, its glimmer was sharp -- warning.

Leave me alone.

He blinked.

The words were so similar to his own thought that it could’ve been his own thought, but so vaguely dissimilar that he knew they weren’t quite.

He stepped away, giving the egg an imperious look -- the feeling of it being returned distinct.

So not a simple beast.

He’d have to talk to Chestnut, though the notes she’d left were covered in hearts. He could hardly think she’d be so fond if the beast had talked to her.

“Stay.” He commanded, before turning to the cupboard and pulling out ingredients for a supper his stomach had been growling for. As he cooked, he peaked at the egg. It hadn't moved, obediently.

Worst case scenario: it would hatch. But for now, it was quiet and it could still fetch a pretty penny. Maybe if he took it to another town. He nodded at his idea as he crunched down on his toasted bread, the fried egg atop it gushing yolk. He shot a look at the egg by the fire, pointed.

A warning in return.