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Being a fishmonger in Val Salia was a profitable enough living. Obviously, being a port town, it was piss-easy to get the freshest wares, and people had to eat.

The problem was the competition.

The fishermen would never not sell their wares, but a little extra copper here and there could ensure that the exceptionally large or exotic catches would conveniently get hidden under a pile of herring or fall off the table just as certain fishmongers were perusing, leaving the most profitable catches for the more enterprising fishmongers. The problem was coming up with that copper.

Not for Rashon. In addition to having a good relationship with most of the fishermen and dock-workers, he always seemed to have just a little extra money on hand to buy the good will of the rest. Some would wonder aloud just how a fishmonger managed such a thing, affording to most of the exotic and oversized catches was one thing, but to do so consistently, as well as paying off the dockworkers for their help in stymying the other fishmongers, suggested a savvy man with a talent for coin. The one thing no one questioned was the frankly enormous quantities of shellfish Rashon purchased. Oysters, mussels, limpets, clams, even sea slugs, snails, and other such creatures. They were cheap enough that no one batted an eye, but despite not being overly popular as a foodstuff, Rashon reliably sold out every week.

Or he seemed to, as he kept ordering them every week.

A big man marched up the road to a row of businesses, towing behind him a two-wheel cart, piled high with wares covered with a tarp. He pulled up to a large building and into an alley beside it. He opened the large door and wheeled in the cart inside. He grunted and up-ended the cart, the mass of fish slithering out onto a tarp on the floor, herring and cod, mostly, with a few salmon, but all eyes were drawn by the huge, dark mass in the center.

Rashon grinned.

Rashon grunted as he hefted the huge, slimy fish up onto the chopping block. A grouper, and a whopper too, over 200lbs. He grinned at the behemoth fish, this one was a catch and no mistake. He had an order to fill for the wedding of a rich and influential noble's daughter. Five gold moth's worth of fish by the week's end, no particular preference as to which, and a huge stuffed grouper would make for an incredible centerpiece for the feast. While he could probably charge at least two gold for such a fish and still fill the order with other, less profitable fare, offering up such a creature to a powerful man was valuable in more ways than one. If he could impress, he could become the official fishmonger of the houses' kitchen!

And all because of yinglets. Who would have thought?

The door to his shop rang. Rashon cocked his head, who could that be? His wife? No, she was off on the cart at the fish market. The only people who come to his shop are people looking to fill out orders, and he didn't have anyone scheduled today. He opened the door and stepped through, wiping the stinking fish-slime off his hands with a towel. Standing in the doorway was a yinglet.

A very familiar yinglet.

He was a cute little creature, smallish, with a rounded snout and ears, with blue-grey fur on his back and sides, creamy off-white on his belly and a coifed, styled tuft of blonde hair atop his head. He saw the burly fishmonger and smiled, adjusting his fancy white calf-skin vest, reaching into a pocket and producing a scrap of paper.

“Hello hello Mr. Rashon." Squeaked the yinglet.

“Hello hello, Tuck," Rashon said, amused. “I assume you're here about the order?"

“Yes yes, Mr. Rashon is so so clever," said Tuck, wagging his decorated tail. “Master wanted to know how zhe order was coming along. He's expecting some extra people and wants to know if zhere is any way to expand zhe order?"

Rashon smiled and headed into the back, gesturing for the yinglet to follow. Tuck did and gasped, hands clapping to his cute little face as he saw the grouper. The fishmonger grinned, imagining how such a fish must look to a yinglet. No word of a lie, the fish likely could have swallowed a yinglet whole and have room for seconds, thirds, even tenths.

“Oh wow!" Tuck exclaimed, turning to him. “Wow wow wow! Such a soverybig fish!"

“Your master will like?"

Tuck spun about and clapped his hands. “Oh yes yes yes! Master will so so like zhe biiig fish! In zhe middle of zhe feasting table, it would look so so impressive! Yes yes!"

Rashon chuckled and nocked his thumb into his waistband. “You're the expert, Tuck. Well, I'm glad you dropped by, it puts my mind at rest to know this big ol grouper'll please."

The fancy little yinglet did a fancy little bow. “Tuck lives to please, Mr. Rashon."

“That you do," Rashon said, walking up to the scav. “But something tells me that you're not just here on an errand…"

Tuck looked up at him and smiled, it wasn't his affect, blithe house-yinglet smile either, but an all-too-familiar, knowing smile, the smile that hinted at the devious, sharp little mind hiding behind that adorable face. “Mr. Rashon is so so clever…"

“Yeah," Rashon said, reaching behind his leather apron. “I know what you want."

When his hand reappeared, in it was a small, full sack. He jostled it, producing a dry rattle. Tuck licked his lips and reached out, paws grasping. The huge fishmonger tossed the sack to the little yinglet, who chittered and caught it. Tuck reached in and grabbed a handful of small, brown, desiccated nuggets. With obvious relish, he scarfed the entire bag, huge dopey grin spreading across his face as he chewed and swallowed.

“Oh yes," Tuck moaned, a shuddering sigh escaping him. “Yes yes yes, zhat's what Tuck was after."

“You deserve every bit, Tuck," Rashon chuckled, patting the yinglet on the head. “It's because of your bright idea that I even got this grouper for your master."

“Oh yes?"

“Oh yes," said Rashon, smirking. “Your scav buddies'll do anything for those baggies! Why, last week I had a lad give me a purse full of silver moths! I couldn't have bought off the fishermen to keep that grouper for me without it!"

Tuck giggled at this, the effect of the baggy already taking hold. “So silly lads!"

It was true, Tuck had been the one to suggest the practice to the robust fishmonger, but his human industriousness made a business of it. Rashon took the cheap-as-free shellfish from the fishermen, slow-dried them in an oven, and parceled them out to ravenous yinglets in exchange for whatever the crafty little addicts could scrounge. Shiny rocks, glass beads, lost rings, silver and gold teeth (somehow), even picked purses and stolen jewelry. The fact that it never occurred to the scavs that their findings would probably be more than enough to buy what they craved tickled Tuck to his core, not that he needed many examples to affirm his superiority to his dim, filthy brethren.

“Indeed," said Rashon, clearing his throat. “That reminds me. The rush is coming in about ten minutes and my 'accountant' has been missing for a few days… I think he might have been eaten by a dog… could you do me a favor and fill in?"

“I don't know…" Tuck said, mulling the offer over. “Tuck still has many errands to run…"

Rashon chuckled and walked over to the pile of fish, reaching in and producing a massive conch snail. “Still fresh, alive. All yours if you do."

“Deal!"

Yinglets filtered in, a few at first, then a few more, then dozens, scores, all with sacks filled with mostly useless junk.

Mostly.

Tuck worked diligently, his clam-addled brain focused and ecstatic as he sorted through the chaff, doling out sacks of dried scav-bait in commensurate amounts related to value. Shiny things would net a scav a scoop, copper or other bits of currency would net them two scoops, jewelry would win the prize of three full scoops. Of course, the scavs didn't differentiate between types of currency or the actual value of jewelry, nor did they assign said value to a given measure of dried mollusk meat. But that was the point.

Tuck smiled.

“Hey dere cutie," said a scav. “You ain't de usual lad."

Tuck looked up and saw a tallish yinglet, a proper lad, with a long snout and proud shelltooth, his fur was brown and his head fur darker brown, with a long, rugged scar up his cheek.

Tuck knew this scav.

“Brakka."

Brakka smirked, his cronies looming behind him as he leaned on the table Rashon had set up. “Nyeh heh heh… how is ya, Tuck? Still snackin' on flatface cock?"

“Feasting," said Tuck, not looking up from his notebook. “You're looking zhin. Lean times?"

“Not for long," said Brakka, pulling out a strange-looking green gem, it was covered with what looked like barnacles and sea crust. “See dis? Dis' gonna make me a big shot. Bigger'n da bosses back in de enclave. Mebbe bigger'n yer master. How'd ya like dat, huh? Be my cocksleeve instead?"

“You wouldn't even reach zhe back," Tuck muttered, looking up. “Do you have anyzhing worzhwhile, or should I get Mr. Rashon back here to introduce your head to your shithole?"

“What's zhe hold up?!" Screamed one of the more ragged scavs.

One of Brakka's goons, a very tall grey yinglet, quietly and serenely reached over and snapped the offending scav's arm in half. The screaming scav was then silenced with a swift club to the head.

“Oh, Mr. Rashon~!" Tuck said, sing-song. “We have some trouble-makers~!"

Rashon tromped out from behind the tarp, six and a half feet of thew, chorded muscle, his trunk-like arms crossed over his chest. “Trouble?"

Brakka sneered and set down a gravid purse, copper pieces and a few silver ones spilling out. “No trouble."

Tuck silently filled five sacks with two scoops. With that, the scavs left, prompting the next in line to step in, their dazed comrade slung over their shoulders. They dropped a handful of silver coins and a gold tooth.

Two scoops.

An hour later and Tuck was thumbing through the notebook, taking stock of the contributions; Rashon had turned a tidy profit today, more than enough to pay for the best fish to 'conveniently' fall by the wayside at the docks.

“Zhere," Tuck said, setting down his charcoal stick and standing up. “Scav-business is over. You made fifty silver's worzh in coin, have six brass rings, one tin ring, a polished copper necklace, and a wide assortment of beads, polished stones, and shiny junk."

“Very good, Tuck!" Rashon said, his laugh a low throaty rumble. “That jewelry will fetch a good price, and my daughters could make necklaces and wristbands out of the beads and shiny crap to sell at the stand."

“Yes yes, Mr. Rashon will be so-so wealzhy and prosperous," Tuck said, impatiently. “I seem to recall a snail?"

Rashon smirked and grabbed the conch off the table, tossing the heavy mollusk at the scav. “Here you go. Payment as promised."

Tuck grunted as the heavy shell hit his chest, staggering him, but he didn't care. The ravenous yinglet dove in, his shelltooth skewering the soft, orange flesh, smaller teeth hooking in fast. He pulled back, slowly ripping the twitching, clenching snail out of its shell, his long, barbed tongue lashing out, expertly severing the connective tissues, freeing the snail from its home. Tuck snapped back, a five pound wad of flesh in his teeth. Tuck unhinged his jaw and tossed his head, the slimy, shiny meat sliding down his throat with a lewd sound. The scav's throat bulged out as the huge mass slid down his gullet, butting up against the narrow passage of his collarbone for a moment before, after a moment of repeated swallowing, surged through and into his stomach.

Tuck sighed with relief and closed his eyes, bracing for the rush. His stomach clenched around the meat and, after a moment, a massive surge of bliss washed over him. His heart rate skyrocketed as his ears flushed, his eyesight became sharp, focused, even the dark corners of the room illuminated as though under a sun-mirror. The smell of fish and meat and dried goodies filled his nostrils, causing drool to drip from his open maw.

“Oh ho ho ho~" Tuck said, chuckling and shuddering. “Zhaaaat's sum good stuff zhere…"

“Yeah, don't mention it, Tuck," Rashon said, chuckling good-naturedly. “You don't ever have to worry! You've earned every last scrap I can send your way for that wonderful idea!"

Tuck briefly considered plunging his paws into the burlap sack and stuffing handful after handful into his mouth, eating and eating and eating until… no, he wouldn't do that, it simply wouldn't do to eat so much delectable flesh just to sick it back up like a hatchling. Besides, that snail would keep him in bliss for the next several hours at least. What to do with this glorious high?

“Wanna fuck?"

Tuck wanted to slap himself. It just slipped out. He liked Rashon, he was jovial and friendly, and the huge man was every hairy, veiny, muscular inch his type. But the canny Catcher could see none of the markers that suggested a scav-chaser. No lingering looks, no explorative glances, not so much as a sniff of reciprocity. Even if Tuck had gone days, no, a week without a good fuck, he wouldn't risk drawing the fishmonger's ire.

“Yeah, sure."

What.

“What."

“Let's fuck," said Rashon, grinning at the destruction of the normally unflappable scav's mien. “Don't think I haven't heard about you, 'Human Catcher'. The scavs that drop by here call you the 'reed planter', because every time you get an itch, a new reed gets planted!"

Tuck flushed at this, it was not a bad moniker. “Reed Planter? Really?"

“There's much talk about how robust the crop has become," said Rashon, leaning in. “Now, I won't rightly call myself a scav-chaser, but let's see if you can change that."

Tuck smirked, his addled head swimming with lurid, wet ideas. “Zhe Human Catcher loves a challenge, but even fishermen like when a long, fat, zhrobbing trout jumps in zheir boat."

Rashon beckoned the yinglet to follow him, they ascended the stairs to the mezzanine. The room was used for storage usually, with files and scrolls filling countless dated slots. However, it was not uncommonly used for an extra sleeping space for when Rashon's wife got it in her head that he was sneaking about.

He was, of course.

There were more than a few wives about who would barter for a fat trout with something besides coin, and Rashon had a reputation around town for making even rich women save their silver

As such, the humble area had been arranged tastefully, with a window-lit bed in the middle of the space, bracketed by filing systems. The mattress was wide, long, spacious, appropriately for a man of Rashon's dimensions, but with a few telltale stains that told of the numerous toe-curling payments he had extracted.

“So," said Tuck, hopping onto the musky, storied mattress. “I must know. What brought on zhis newfound appreciation for my people?"

Rashon inhaled deeply, clapping his shovel-hands against his barrel chest. “See that? Three weeks ago I couldn't do that without coughing up a lung. Consumption, the physic said. I'd have wasted away, hacking and coughing, before dying an invalid skeleton. But, well, I guess your people could smell the death on me and called up a famous healer to dose me with some yinglet medicine. Old yinglet. What was his name? Kopaka?"

“Ah." Tuck said, rolling his eyes. “Koraka."

“Yes, that was it," said Roshan, smiling now. “Well, he gave me a vial full of oil with a funny little reed on it and introduced me to a friend of his…"

“Yes, yes, I know zhe rest!" Tuck rolled back onto the bed. “Zhe yinglet 'spirit of relief' paid you a nice little visit and cured your malady, among ozher zhings. I swear, zhat old man's 'spirit' made someone happy in a past life, getting paid to do as he does…"

Rashon laughed and pulled off his shirt. “That he did! Now I'm breathing clear, feeling well, and possessed of a certain… vitality."

Tuck grunted as a heavy linen shirt was tossed at him, eclipsing his entire body like a falling sail. It stank of sweat and fish and musk. He sniffed deeply, shuddering in pleasure as the rank man-stink filled his nostrils.

“I'm no fool," said a voice from elsewhere, somewhere beyond the shirt, the bed creaking as a huge weight set down on it. “I know I was visited by no spirit or ghost or god, but that bodes well for you horny little shits, doesn't it?"

Tuck pulled the shirt off and gasped at what he saw: Rashon towered over him, huge, muscular, and very very nude. His belly was round and hairy, but not flabby. Behind a jacket of fat was a bulging thicket of muscle, giving his torso a solid, rippling, barrel-like visage, the true extent of his immense strength only hinted at. Beneath his muscle-gut was a long, thick organ, his veiny flaccid cock and balls pulling the skin taut with their apparently immense weight.

“Bodes well, yes," the snail-drunk scav murmured, eyes wide as his red little cock sprang out as though on a spring. “Bodes so so very well, yes yes."

“Well?" Rashon chortled, hands on his hips as he wagged himself in front of the spellbound ratbird, Tuck's eyes following it like a dog tracks a treat. “You can touch it."

Tuck licked his lips, nodding as he stared forward. He reached out and grabbed it, gasping at how tiny his hands seemed next to it. It was warm, soft, spongy. A huge grin split his face as he felt it harden, get thicker (as if it wasn't already thick enough!) and longer, stretching down, extending, before beginning to stand on its own. Tuck worked the shaft, heart hammering in his tiny chest as he watched the monster grow, pulling the foreskin back before scrunching it back up, a small scavvy part of him wanted to make it into a puppet and say–

“Oh hello hello Mr. Tuck," he made the cock say, his voice as deep as he could make it. “How are you today?"

“Tuck is so so good, Mr. Huge Cock," Tuck said, part of him internally horrified at the scene he was making, but a larger part much too high and horny to care. “Mr. Huge Cock, can Tuck ask you somezhing?"

“You may, cute, sexy little yinglet," said the immense dick.

“Can Mr. Huge Cock fuck little Tuck? Fuck little Tuck so hard Mr. Huge Cock comes out Tuck's mouzh?" Tuck pumped the dick with one hand as he cupped Rashon's low-hanging balls with the other. “Fuck fuck fuck Tuck and empty zhese huge, swollen balls deep into Tuck's tight little body? Can Mr. Huge Cock do zhis?"

“I'll see what I can do," said Rashon, a bemused look on his face.

“Do you mind?" Tuck said, glancing up at Rashon. “Zhis is between me and Mr. Huge Cock. I would zhank you not to eavesdrop."

Rashon threw his head back and laugh, reaching down and shoving the tiny yinglet onto his back. “Spread your legs, slut."

Tuck loosed something between a giggle and a delighted squeal, his legs snapping open. He clasped his hands to his face, peering through his fingers with a mix of lust and anxiety. Mr. Huge Cock was fully hard now and hung off Rashon like some obscenely deformed third leg, his balls swinging low, the skin taut and shiny. No wonder Rashon had so many daughters!

Rashon leaned forward and lined himself up with the slick, quivering scav-hole, Tuck loosed a high, shrill laugh as he felt the bulbous, shiny head bump against his trembling little prick, thicker that his own was long. The head alone might reach the back!

The fat, bulbous crown squashed as Rashon pressed down, Tuck's pocket folding inward as it strained to accept the massive organ. Tuck moaned and gasped as he felt himself stretch right up to what he felt was his limit, where pleasure and pain intersected, he looked down and blinked in surprise: his pocket had not even taken the head yet. In fact, there was a terrifying amount of girth to go before such a thing was possible.

Maybe this was a bad idea.

“Fuck, lad," Rashon groaned. “You're tighter than my wife's purse-string!"

Tuck's eyes flashed, a malicious grin spreading across his face. “I'm tighter zhan you're wife's anyzhing! Now Tuck will make you forget allll about her!"

The yinglet angled his hips and pressed up, exhaling as he did. His eyes shone as he saw his hole slacken, buckle, and then give in. Half of Rashon's preposterous length plunged into his hot, slick flesh with a lewd slurp. Tuck screamed and arched his back, his prick, crushed against the intruder by his own tightness, twitched and throbbed as he came, dripping pre and lube, but nothing more. Tuck panted and shuddered, looking down with confusion: he just came, didn't he? Then where was the cum?

“Fuck~" Rashon moaned, catching himself before he could succumb; this scav pussy was too good! “You okay, Tuck?"

“N-no… Tuck is not o-okay…" Tuck hissed, every tiny twitch from this massive slab was like getting fucked by itself. “T-Tuck wanted to get f-f-ah!-FUCKED, n-no-ooh!-not cuddled like a b-baby!"

“Well," said Rashon, smirking. “You're the boss."

Rashon withdrew with a slow, wet sound, Tuck's pocket clinging to the well-lubricated organ out of sheer suction. Tuck tittered and instinctively exhaled just as the huge human brought his hips crashing down, hilting himself in the scav in a single thrust. Tuck was thankful he had exhaled, because the tip of that monster felt like it was somewhere around his stomach, and doubtless would have knocked the wind from him. Somewhere in the back of the yinglet's mind, hopelessly muddled by the murk of lust and shellfish endorphins, a timid little voice spoke up, reminding him that they were already late for their next appointment and–

He was cumming again.

Tuck squealed and grabbed feebly at the huge, muscular body atop him, his livid cock twitching and jumping but, once again, only dribbling precum and lubricant. Taking this to mean 'go ahead' Rashon went ahead. The man moaned in pleasure as he fucked the limp yinglet. The scav's body was a bloody paradox, tight and accommodating going in, taking his full length right down to his increasingly wet hilt like he was an average man, a feat most women in town could not claim. But as soon as he pulled out, it sucked on him as though to pull him back in, drawing tight and hot around his length. It was almost difficult to withdraw, the suction was so strong. The added texture of the yinglet's hard little cock added an extra element of texture, of pleasure, that was addicting. Rashon lost himself, bellowing like a bull as the mezzanine resounded with the wet claps of their bodies meeting, underscored with the low, lewd slurps of his shaft sliding in and out.

Tuck twitched and bucked sporadically, well and truly fucked silly, the only sign of life was the sensuous, deliberate pressure his pocket plied him with, gripping when it needed to, pushing when it would be most pleasurable, squeezing and massaging and pushing and pulling. One could even see the yinglet's chest rise and fall with each thrust, careful not to have a lungful whenever the human impaled the little creature. Tuck, for his part, wasn't thinking so much as acting instinctively, his body acting of its own accord while his higher thought processes were almost literally fucked out of him. He was cumming almost constantly now; when he felt that tip smash somewhere deep inside him, roughly pushing whatever was in there out of the way, he came. When he felt that length scrap along his cock on the way out, rubbing his entire length both inside and out like a massive slick tongue, he came. When those huge, increasingly slick balls smashed into his crotch, he came. When that hard, muscular belly crushed his little prick between it and his belly, he came. He came and came and came.

But he didn't cum. The lights went off behind his distant, unfocused eyes and he was feeling that initial wave of pleasure, but no matter what his immense lover did, he never truly climaxed. Like a song with no crescendo, there was no plateau to his pleasure, only an endlessly building high note.

On some level, this was deeply concerning. On another, he was cumming.

What? Well, of course he was–

No, he was cumming, whatshisname, Mr. Huge Cock.

“F-fuck lad!" Rashon groaned, his massive, blunt fingers digging into Tuck's hips. “I-I'm–FUCK!"

Those huge, turgid balls snapped up as though on a drawstring, pulled tight against his taint as he bellowed like a bull, his cock jumping as it pumped load after load of thick human cum deep inside the yinglet's body. The fishmonger heaved and panted, little fireworks snapping behind his eyes. As his mind cleared from one of the stronger orgasms he'd had in recent memory, he looked down at his partner. It dawned on him how tiny Tuck was, how delicate and light. On impulse his jerked his still-hard cock inside the yinglet and was shocked to see the scav lift bodily off the bed. He also noted, with no small measure of concern, that the strange fluttering sensation he was feeling on the tip of his cock might well be Tuck's heart.

“Tuck?" He ventured. “You okay, lad?"

“Enrghrfgrrr…" Tuck gurgled, his eyes focused on exactly nothing as he stared at the ceiling.

“I'm gonna… I'm gonna pull out, okay?"

“Rgrgflgr…"

Rashon moved to pull out, only for his dick to drag the entire yinglet with it, the scav's hot, tight depths refusing to release his length. The fishmonger grunted and grabbed his hips, manually pulling the dazed yinglet from his cock. With a final yank, his cock sprang free with a loud, wet pop, like a finger pulled from between one's teeth and cheek, followed by a surge of lubricant and seed. Tuck, who'd been in the grips of what felt like an unending orgasm, relished the slow, deliberate removal, twitching at the final little climax he got from the sensation. But when the huge organ was finally freed, that building wave broke, the crescendo reached, the high note hit, and all the curtailed climaxes rushed to the fore. Tuck's hands balled into fists as his limbs went stiff, his back arched. His tiny, shiny red cock bucked and jumped as blast after blast of hot, ropey scav cum blasted forth, backed up from the merciless rutting. Four or five spurts for each capped orgasm, hot seed painted both Rashon and Tuck in long, white streaks. When Tuck finally stopped, milky, opaque cum dripped from the pair, pooling about on the truly befouled sheets.

Rashon examined the mess, noting his own comparatively humble contribution lazily dribbling out the scav's gaping dickpocket. “Damn… you okay, Tuck?"

“FuckTuckfuckTuckmoooorefuckfuckmoremore…" Tuck babbled. “Cumcumcum…"

“Yeah, that happens," said Rashon, wiping his belly with a cotton blanket. “That 'spirit' of yours said something about me squeezing the pipes shut in there."

“I didn't ask…" Tuck said, panting like a hooked trout. “Let's just do zhat again, okay?"

“Yeah, definitely!" Rashon said, perhaps a little too quickly.

Tuck smirked at this, focusing his eyes for the first time in ten minutes. “Oh ho? Well well well, did zhe Reed Planter sow anozher crop?"

Rashon blushed, adorably, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, my wife did say she didn't want any more kids."

“She will zhank Tuck, zhen." Tuck sat up, his belly trembling, having been thoroughly massaged from the other side. “Tuck's never been zhanked by a human lady before."

“You, uh, gonna give me a reed or something?"

“Like Mr.Rashon needs a reed to draw in scans." Tuck laughed and began to lick himself clean. “Find you a new accountant and show him zhe time of his life, however long zhat is. Zhat said, Tuck will be back, and not just for treats."

“I never doubted that for a second!"

Once clean, Tuck hopped off the bed and, to his amusement, found his legs wobbly underneath him, unable to close his legs beyond what was necessary to walk, and even then just barely. “Been a while since I've had a funny walk. You done made zhis Human Catcher's day, Mr. Rashon!"

Rashon watched, amused, as the yinglet waddled off towards the stairs. “Where're you off to now, Reed Planter?"

“Good question." Tuck tapped his chin and reached into his pocket, producing a list. “Ah! Zhe coppersmizh. She will be making Zhe centerpiece of Mistress' jewelry!"

“Pretty exited about, aintcha? But a 'she'?" Rashon said, wryly. “That ain't your type."

Tuck smiled wolfishly. “Zhe Human Catcher, maybe not, but zhe Reed Planter, well, he may surprise you."

With that, the yinglet left, humming jauntily to himself. His day was going pretty well so far.