Like a late summer morning mist that comes with the dew, the Little Wizard glides smoothly along the low land of the room. It makes the sounds of one who is contented - of past deeds or a deed yet to come, who knows? A bubbling hum. A contented hum. The little Wizard glances at you but also at something else, something shiny on the ground. Too many distractions. The focus wavers. The Little Wizard seems to falter in its purpose - shiny or you. You are not shiny. You are known - you are the one who is always here. But this shiny thing is new. Or is it? The Little Wizard scans and thinks. Ah, but I've seen this before. Recognition then instant focus to something else. The rustling Wizard turns to you again and says something that could only be gibberish. No, not gibberish, really. Gibberish is the ability to phoneticize. No, this is a trill...
Wherever You Are, You're In BFE