[The little hut creaks up onto its clawed, scaly legs so it can lean forward to examine the frog more closely; and then its door opens.
The woman sitting cross-legged in the hut's doorway is still Iris: an Iris showing the effects of another 900 years of hard drinking and bad decisions, perhaps. She's silver-haired, crabbed and warty, and her sunken face makes her nose and chin so prominent that they almost meet across her mouth.
The hand that shoots out, snakeswift, to seize the frog by its legs is a smaller edition of the hut's claws.]
How adorable. How precious! A man in a frog's skin, how perfectly delicious. What shall we do with him?
no subject
The woman sitting cross-legged in the hut's doorway is still Iris: an Iris showing the effects of another 900 years of hard drinking and bad decisions, perhaps. She's silver-haired, crabbed and warty, and her sunken face makes her nose and chin so prominent that they almost meet across her mouth.
The hand that shoots out, snakeswift, to seize the frog by its legs is a smaller edition of the hut's claws.]
How adorable. How precious! A man in a frog's skin, how perfectly delicious. What shall we do with him?