
Attikias was certainly not around enough to hear the first act of thievery, but breaking the pots was such a unique noise that the elf
instantly knew trouble was up. Scrambling to his feet and shoving his equipment into his pack, he rushed home to the song of ceramic being shattered and crunched.
What the hell was big enough to make that racket? Alpha, probably- but as he drew closer, the scent of
rot filled his nose. Was it rotting his food? Was it raiding an urn he'd forgotten? What was going on-
One pushed-aside fern later, and Attikias
gagged at the stench that hit him. One hand flew up to his mouth as he tried to settle on one face to make.
It settled on pure, unbridled disgust. What WAS that? Why was it MOVING? Why did it look like a hunk of vomit and flesh? And what was it doing to his food! Swallowing down his nerves and emotions, Attikias stood up straighter and approached, his spear-point out towards it as it devoured more and more.
"H-hey!" He stammered out his words as he slowly slid closer, eyes wild as he stared at it.
"Don't- stop that, hey!" The weapon was trained on it, but his arms still shook as dread started to settle in, deep within his gut. The tail behind him whipped uneasily.
"Get- get away!"
Nice confidence there, bud.