With a mighty exhale, the dragon changed the appearance of the room in one fell swoop of his nostrils, taking poor Finnegan with the billowing mass of confusion. “Don’t either of you worry,” called he as he flew through the air rapidly yet with remarkable calm, “for this fellow occasionally has his night terrors, and with them come the wind storms, y’know.”
“‘S not all, mate,” Decca warned in a whisper, but his companion had already set his gaze on the matter and hid himself quite immediately, tail unconsciously flopping in displeasure. The dragon was sniffing for something, and not in the way a slumber may ever bring. He was not inconspicuous in the slightest, because indeed, in all his fury and might, why might he ever have an occasion to? Decca lowered himself slowly and placed himself close to his companion. “Well right then. What are we blokes to do?”
Before the feline could reply, he was quite abruptly interrupted by a ferocious clashing of pots and pans along the eastern wall. The tidal wave seemed never to end, the metal clanging over and over enough to make the toughest of men cower. “Ah, don’t you worry, my friends! Old Finnegan’s been through much worse, he has, and this sort of thing is just like ‘im. Temper in his sleep, that is, least that I can make out.”
Even as the indigo man flit right back to where he was before, he remained just as calm as ever before. There were obvious bruises even along his darkly-feathered skin, a dragon sniffing the air and moving about quite freely, shaving cream splattered about every corridor, pots and pans still managing, even a minute later, to fall from dark upper corners, and a serenely determined man with a can of cream still clutched firmly to his person.
“You see that, lads? How’s that for dexterity eh? Still got some girth in me yet!” He looked about the room and scratched his head. “Now, just where did those lads run off to?”
“Follow my lead if you care to free yourself unscathed from this place,” whispered Patches just as loud as he dared. “Now!”
Slow and steady was not the order of the day, and Decca regretted his lack of limbs suited for running. He learned quite well how to carry himself in battle, aversion his forte, but his legs were a veritable challenge. So it was that Decca remained quite far behind as Patches dashed forward quite efficiently and eloquently onto the single plaited rope leading directly into the vents above, all without a second glance. Realizing his error, Patches cursed at his rotten fortune; he hated having to work with others, and now he had to suffer the consequence of retrieving his straggling companion—whatever that meant in this unlucky scenario.
Blindly, Patches followed the voices below. Wishing sorely that a grating may appear, he tried the best he could to make out what he could. By the tone, it was at least clear that the hunt was still on. Finnegan patiently and whimsically called out to his newly-gained friends over and over again, the names a blur that seemed to all but lose meaning.
Sighing wistfully, Finnegan finally gave up when the cream bottle lost its remaining contents. “Aw, but I liked our little team. Oh, my small wee lads! I do sorely hope ye have not wandered far!”
“OH BELIEVE ME, MY DEAR FRIEND,” he heard from behind a loud, booming voice, “THEY’RE CLOSER THAN YOU MAY REALIZE, AND I DO BELIEVE THAT YOU’RE GOING TO GIVE THEM TO ME.”