The Cutting froze mid-step. Addis carefully turned to face whoever had been talking to him.

It was a small man. Perhaps smaller than The Cutting was, but still a small man. Addis didn't quite understand the difference between a young small man and an old small man; to him, one was simply smaller than the other. They had no lithe, green limbs, their leaves remained the same color and consistency almost all their lives, and their voices were altogether too fast and high-pitched to differentiate between one another. To Addis, a small man was a small man.

[i]This[/i] small man was vaguely interested in what Addis was looking at. It seemed to be genuinely unaware of the potential danger the nearby inn posed, but was fortunately not enthralled by it. Addis spoke calmly and clearly, as if looking to ensure no single syllable would offend the small man.

[b]"[color=lawngreen]Wychcraftery,[/color]"[/b] said Addis in a booming accent so old it had fermented, [b]"[color=lawngreen]goeth forewarde [i]notte[/i], Son of Mann. Heed me, lest thy Harte be consumenned by daemon and peery folke alike. Forwar' lay a gay board-home, hidinge Danger Most Foule. Manne and Wo-manne falle 'pon each and other, and slaye country-menne like [i]dogges[/i]![/color]"[/b]

Confident that his message had gone through, Addis turned to watch the inn again. The Cutting continued his journey back to Addis, pointedly ignoring the troubling sounds behind him.