Echo lifts his head, ears tipping back as he gives a small, uncertain whine. His tail thumps once. He noses closer and presses his shoulder against Olgar’s leg, looking up in confusion. Olgar is upset, but.... here there is nothing to chase, nothing to bite or punch? A soft, confused huff.
From outside the cracked window, cold air carries a loud, wildly off key child’s voice, the kind of volume that drills straight through a headache.
“I’m King Henry the Eighth, I am, I am,” Connor bellows happily, boots crunching past. “Henry the Eighth I am, I am!”
He plows on without any sense that he might be too much, or too loud.
“My name is John Jacob Jingleheimer Schmidt,” he proclaims, somehow louder. “That’s my name too!”
Another breath, another song, claimed with bright certainty and zero self awareness.
“I’m a little teapot, short and stout,” the pooka sings at full volume. “Here is my handle, here is my spout!”