It had been many years, perhaps decades or centuries. But squirrels did not count time. They merely existed. Seek food, find food, bury food, find food again. Seek food, find food, bury food, seek food again... Wait! Another squirrel! An attractive squirrel! Seek food, find food, bury food, multiply with other squirrel, find food again... It was simple enough. On occasion there might be a slight variation in one's squirrel's brain though. Find food, focus on broken-tree pile, see two-legger, food!
The descendants of this variation had settled into their places as dusk descended. Their glowing eyes were focused on an ancient place, a broken-tree pile, that spoke of dwarven origin, but elven occupation. They should have been seeking rest, but activities within the broken-tree pile they focused on had them restless. The wind sighed among the tree branches where these descendants now rested and waited, watching.
"Bettijane... Bettijane..." it was a whispered chant of anticipation.
And for some reason every last one wore a tiny red or green hat topped with a bell.
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