Wymond the Fox shifted on the stump as he finished cooking a trout over the coals. “I can’t believe that Avalonian painter tried to adjust the way those elk were holding their heads. I have enough to worry about without needing to save painters from their absurdities.” He inspected the trout and decided it was ready.
As he was tearing into the cooked fish, Wymond heard the cracking of twigs and labored breathing. He stamped out his fire. Before Wymond could crawl into his shelter a portly man crashed through the underbrush.
“It better snow early this year,” Wymond muttered, “I can’t stand any more painters.”
The painter, oblivious to what Wymond was saying, began setting up an easel. Wymond put on his best grimace. The more frightening he looked in the paintings sold in Avalonia, the fewer painters would come looking for him; at least, that was his hope.