Dark and Others / DecaosDondi

Freshly baked Dark One, digs up a hot identity from a hot nap oven. He rejects to the sides: pieces of dreams, yawns, snorings, and remnants of rams he hoped for, hoping for a average sleep, while besides feeding sugar wool.

He just spits out, louched, choking his hair (because he hit one) erstwhile he hears it behind him: sz sz sz sz sz sz sz sz sz sz sz sz szesz. Since he is not brave, he looks forward to sucking his eyes on his head. After a while, the knot of mystery is untangled, and the aforementioned, pompously favored darkness, looks curiously around to know who came insufferably and unexpectedly from behind, disturbing the sleeping peace.

Whoa! It's only Wegejag – he's just considering waking up, with his hair sticking out with his mouth and disappointed in half a whistle, due to the fact that in the another half, he's enjoying the thought that a friend has come. He looks at the visitor with an intrusive eye, for he does not look as usual. He has a somewhat tense look, so a slight glistening of horror, flickering phenomenally in the eyeballs, and the eyelids hang with the icicles of excitement.

In addition to the usual umbrella, of course, with a shroud of peace and future events, woven into the centrifugal, supportive spans.

Weejag keeps the guard's skull above him, sixth, hairy paw. Thus, the Dark 1 besides begins the usual exchange of words, as he hopes that this will ease the situation, the balm of a good conversation, or a good word.

No wonder, since he was little, he has been surrounded by the word - making shadows of the early literates who have been in the tradition of utilizing interesting vocabulary, sown in the land of the fathers, and giving any fruit, better, worse and complete bottom, for ever.

Spider. I'm not amazed to see you. What are you gonna tell me this time?
- Don't call me spider, by your grace. I'm a Wesley. Should I repeat all occasion why?
- Absolutely. This is our eternal game. I know what you're gonna say, and you pretend I don't know what I'm gonna hear.
It's good of you to remember.
You said that yesterday, but say it again.

I've got an anti-muscle umbrella to keep flies from flying at me. For any time now, I stopped eating insect meat. Although I must admit...
I have to.
I'm sorry. I gotta admit, I've got any dummies in my pantry, wrapped in silk, painted artistically by me, so I can impress...
- I know. Eggs. It's nice. You have talent. Now, tell me, why are you so uptight about the tip of your ass?
Can't I proceed with my self-glory? Please?
- You can't. Tell me what you're here for.
- Well...

Eternal: “Well, with a three-dot.” He needs a sword. What sword? What am I saying? To have an crucial problem in his head, since he utilized a conventional wording he uses only in exceptional situations. Really, he looks six legs shaky, but for the umbrella. I wonder what's bothering him. He even shot a bundle of spiders in my direction. I think this is the first time I've always lived.

- Dear Dark One.

Oh, no. Looks like he's failing his health. I hope from a cup of optimistic thoughts that with his head all the same. So you always do. For the first time, he talked to me so tenderly

I'll be brief. We gotta save the Old Maruda of the Feathered Swirk coat of arms. Squirrels attack him from all sides and from others, making life miserable. They scare with red furs, painted on ominous colors and acorns empty in the middle, in which they scraped out mean faces, and inside they stuck drunk fireflies and Old Maruda hallucinates that it is any deadwood forest or something far worse, furry from inside a fiery, dark sight.
What are you saying, Wege?
I'm telling you, Dark One. You bet. In addition, these fruits of the Fat Oak, have wrinkled caps on their heads, and in all angry ghost of the forest, it gives an ominous look wherever they look. Only they usually look at Old Maruda, and he's scared, he's barely dead. Or at least he makes that impression. So you see, he needs help. I mean, good is coming back, so you know. It's worth it. I mean, not that interesting to say, but you understand. Like fungus, like vermin.

- You're Wegojag for profit, aren't you?
- Oh, no. No way, Dark One. You're full of shit.
– I may be rambling, but you gotta drive distant the unbearable furs. He's old enough, so let's not be overly memorable. He's our ex-friend. Although in truth, you most likely think what he was doing erstwhile he was young, erstwhile he wasn't yet from the coat of arms of the Feathered Swirk, and how he was emboldened erstwhile we disturbed him in the bullying of the animals, shouting that he was a tart and a lump. And yet half the forest's citizens, he drove out with his jokes.
– Rather, their active implementation.
– Overactive.
- Remember?
- There's no time. Let's run to a delicate place and scare the squirrels and leave him alone.
- Our view?
- For 1 thing. Why? You don't think we can do this? Are we besides beautiful?

Too what? Let me look into the puddle. We can do this. Don't worry.
– Oh, Wegejag. possibly you're right about the good. If it came back to us with a double-force.
- Oh, come on, Dark One. Don't get the wolf out of the woods.
That's impossible. He drove the last 1 out with his jokes.
- And why didn't he banish us if we caused him trouble? He didn't want to, he couldn't? Or Squirrel?
– Hmm... you're saying he's with those... so he can keep us.
- What?
- Nothing. That would be besides twisted. Let's pursuit out the mean, strong, scary beasts—the Dark 1 screamed out of nowhere.

* Oh, my God *

However, things didn't go as planned, although Orange Chicks, they were meekly intimidated, a bit intricately sighted. They stopped attacking the Old Maruda coat of arms of the Shrewd Shrew, and that's due to the fact that they escaped bewildered in the knoves and only the red light, for a while, through the surrounding bushes. But even she trembled anxiously between, until she yet took it.

Thus, Mroczus and Wegejag returned to their places with a sense of well-fulfilled duty, hoping that the good would return to them.

And indeed. After any time, the good wanted to return to them, only that it was terribly tired, cutting the road through a silly text, and abruptly it strayed, hitting the incorrect place, changing something, in favour of the mistaken addressees, for what precisely reason.

The full herd of “haired, bloodthirsty oranges” had an excellent, good meal. The Dark 1 and the Vegyajak, they ended up as food for Squirrels.