Fate has four legs

Granger     The fact that he wasn’t dropped was good enough for Granger, rolling a particularly small berry in between his paws as he listens to the man’s soft voice. Despite the soft tone, the small mouse puffs his chest out with indignance, but not before the berry is shoved unceremoniously into the pouch of his cheeks. He knew how to control where his teeth went, thank you very much. Forgetting one's manners when it came to fresh food was entirely different when one was presented with a finger in front of a curious snout. He’d like to see this buffoon try and control his body as succinctly as Granger had learned to do in his attuned form.     The thought makes him laugh, as much as a mouse can, a small squeak wracking his body as he swallows the berry down. Even the annoyance of his mission being interrupted could be put aside for a few moments when he got a treat as delightful as fresh berries. It was still irksome to be detoured in such a manner, but he only had to put up with the old man for as long until he grew bored, just as he expected of any other creature.     So despite paws stained with the juice of too many berries, and the full belly to match, Granger sits up on his hind legs. His front paws rest on where hips might be if he was human, his long tail flaring out to stabilize his form on such an uneven plane as the palm of a stranger's hand. It had been a long time since he had had to start looking out for himself and the fact he was still here to talk to this man was something the boy prided himself on. Not many mice could say the same, and not entirely due to the fact of their short natural lifespans.          ”I’m fifteen, so you’re probably ancient, looking like that. I thought old men were supposed to be wise. Not stupid and talk to strange animals.” Granger slumps back into all fours, paws leaving wet prints of berry juice as he scampered over to the hand with meat, scrambling for purchase when getting caught on the sleeves of the blonde’s shirt. He’d only take a little of this before going off. He’d dallied long enough for his liking, already wishing for the seclusion and darkness of the hole he had made a home. His delicate paws start to make work at the edge of the marbled meat, tearing into the fascia that holds the muscle together.     He pauses in his work, moist snout twitching at the cool air as he glances at the man once more. Would he have talked to any mouse, regardless of attunement? What a strange man. Definitely an Outlander with that behavior.             Oh well,             he'd probably end up dead within a week anyway, may as well take advantage of his misplaced kindness.