Nate !
An incomplete list of the reasons chickens are the best animals in the world:
He was still pissed off, actually. Monumentally, cataclysmically pissed off. But the chickens didn't care about any of that. The chickens only knew it was too hot for any sane animal to be alive, much less outside. They took shelter in the coop and flared their wings and bickered. They hadn't been laying well for several weeks, and Nathaniel knew it was the heat. The same thing happened every year, more or less. So he left them behind with only the dog for company, and maybe the Outlander, if their personal Outlander returned from whatever he was doing. Nathaniel no longer worried about him, in particular. He was harmlessly annoying, difficult to be angry with when everything else was going to shit. He could do with less smoking and more dependability, but he wasn't a nuisance. So he stayed.
And Nathaniel left for the trees.
Longheat retreated, trapped beyond the shadows of the wood. Out of direct sunlight, the day was bearable, if overly hot. Nathaniel had traded the heavy furs he wore earlier in the year for light, rough-spun fabric. A sheen of sweat stood out on his brow nonetheless. He did not particularly enjoy this time of year. Deep enough into Longheat, outdoors or indoors no longer mattered. The air hung stale and oppressive. Nonetheless, hardier creatures than Nathaniel buzzed in the branches and the undergrowth. The forest hummed, and he moved through it with only one ear cocked to the general noise. He knew it all well enough to ignore most of it; nothing too dangerous really showed up during Longheat. Most of his attention, instead, was focused on the ground.
Every now and then, he crouched to examine the undergrowth at the base of a tree. Sometimes, he stood again and left with nothing. But occasionally, he carefully pried a patch of moss from the roots and dropped it in the small basket he carried. The tiny leaves were cool against his fingertips, but he didn't gather the snow moss for himself. It was for the chickens, to line their nests and keep them acceptably cool at least for a little while. And it gave him something to do aside from being angry.
- They don't care.
- They don't care.
- They don't care.
He was still pissed off, actually. Monumentally, cataclysmically pissed off. But the chickens didn't care about any of that. The chickens only knew it was too hot for any sane animal to be alive, much less outside. They took shelter in the coop and flared their wings and bickered. They hadn't been laying well for several weeks, and Nathaniel knew it was the heat. The same thing happened every year, more or less. So he left them behind with only the dog for company, and maybe the Outlander, if their personal Outlander returned from whatever he was doing. Nathaniel no longer worried about him, in particular. He was harmlessly annoying, difficult to be angry with when everything else was going to shit. He could do with less smoking and more dependability, but he wasn't a nuisance. So he stayed.
And Nathaniel left for the trees.
Longheat retreated, trapped beyond the shadows of the wood. Out of direct sunlight, the day was bearable, if overly hot. Nathaniel had traded the heavy furs he wore earlier in the year for light, rough-spun fabric. A sheen of sweat stood out on his brow nonetheless. He did not particularly enjoy this time of year. Deep enough into Longheat, outdoors or indoors no longer mattered. The air hung stale and oppressive. Nonetheless, hardier creatures than Nathaniel buzzed in the branches and the undergrowth. The forest hummed, and he moved through it with only one ear cocked to the general noise. He knew it all well enough to ignore most of it; nothing too dangerous really showed up during Longheat. Most of his attention, instead, was focused on the ground.
Every now and then, he crouched to examine the undergrowth at the base of a tree. Sometimes, he stood again and left with nothing. But occasionally, he carefully pried a patch of moss from the roots and dropped it in the small basket he carried. The tiny leaves were cool against his fingertips, but he didn't gather the snow moss for himself. It was for the chickens, to line their nests and keep them acceptably cool at least for a little while. And it gave him something to do aside from being angry.
