<strong>Name</strong>: Mock<br/><strong>Location</strong>: Lost<br/><strong>Tagged</strong>: Doormouse<br/><br/><br/>“Miss Mouse,” he nodded, the bent feather wagging on his helmet. “I thought I saw a pud- I mean, a kitty-cat in this very place.” Mock pondered and waved vaguely at the air over his head. “Actually, somewhere in this space. Came hurtling in with fear on her face, too. Not unlike you. All thanks to our curfew.” Where had the cat got to?<br/><br/>He leaned back a bit, propped on this hands so they didn't start wandering again, and watched the stories start to creep across her features. Fear was such an old one; although each had its own personal twist it was repeated with such frequency in this world that it teetered on the verge of tedium. He was so often afraid of his own stories that – unless he was the one holding the sharp sharp pen – there was constantly a risk of writing himself into someone else's tale of terror. It didn't do to borrow fear. It always wanted to be paid back with interest.<br/><br/>But now there, there was something unusual wandering around her eyes. Ever more softness. The look of something that begins with C because you could see it. Contrition? Complicity? Constipation? “C-c-c-c,” he began muttering out loud as he drew closer to his mental destination. “Compassion! There we are, mind the step!” He scrambled onto all fours and leaned in very close to Mouse, almost nose to nose.<br/><br/>“I see a tale upon your cheek, pink and soft and yet not as meek as you might think for you reveal a priceless streak of such exquisite... kindness.” Torn between desire to embrace and consume her rare beauty, his lips parted in a breathless smile. Tears, those constant companions, overflowed the corners of his black eyes.<br/><br/>There was something else one was supposed to say on such occasions but rightness dictated that talk of tongues and teeth not be included in the proceedings. Momentarily at a loss, Mock could only whisper, “I should like to hold you now.”<br/>