Wolena

        Cheers invaded the air, the ring overwhelmed with excitement as bright as the spotlight that bathed the hare-like creature in the center of the ring. He, a very large, almost blue-ish grey hare-like monster with curled horns and trimmed ears, gave a broad grin as he bowed to the audience. He allowed himself to soak in the audience’s applause before standing up on his toes and waving at the lot of them. He was in love and they were in awe. He’d succeeded in making them happy once again, so it seemed. The spotlight was then turned off, leaving him in darkness as the usual end-show intercom was heard.        “Please be

     Bill grabbed the hood of the blue garment the small, fuzzy critter wore, which finally gained their notice. The short animal turned her head toward the much taller weasel, knitting her brows.     “What on Earth do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in a wheezy voice.     The target the weasels had acquired seemed to be an elder woman, judging by her voice, the wrinkles on her face, and how slowly she moved. Yep, she was certainly getting up there in age. She had large, round ears, brown fur, a twitchy little nose, a round snout, and chubby cheeks. With her age and her chubby little body, it was unusual to think s

“Gentlemen…” They hadn’t realized what little time they had to sleep that night, between that awful punishment and having to fetch the professor. Did they even sleep that night? At the moment, Bill felt groggy and discombobulated, like his memories were out of order and backwards. The professor came into the throne room and he said something about….potted elephant plants? No, wait. He started talking about how he had been trying to figure out how to fix the table, or something like that. Luckily, Bill and Bob had both trained themselves to wake at the sound of a pin dropping and to make themselves look as thoug

 In hindsight, he probably should’ve thought to do something about that table leg. Well, it’s not like anybody told Bill to replace it, or even how to do so. Could anyone blame him? Well, maybe Bob could, but Bob didn’t care to say anything at the moment. Bob - the short, portly weasel – was too busy groaning and rubbing at the new marks on his back under his shirt. How undignified for a royal guard, and yet there he was. Thanks to whatever happened to that table, Bill now had a cut in his lower back and needed to patch up his work shirt. It was quite peculiar that those claws of the king’s didn’t kill him