“Pssht, no of course not!” Tanismore said, his yellow beak wide in a grin. Handy’s stare of disapproval was unrelenting. “I’m asking you to be my winggriffon.” Handy’s shoulders just sagged as he turned around and continued walking. The pair of them continued down into the village. Handy intended to ask for directions or perhaps lodgings for the night, not keen on the prospect of sleeping rough. Only to be met with people rushing off into their homes, up into the nearest clouds or behind buildings. The few brave souls who remained out in the open generally stuck behind stalls or close to the local blacksmith. They smiled nervously at the pair of them.