3:07 AM.
Coyote kicked the sleeping bag off his legs and crept across the wooden floor, whispering urgently, "Flin. Flin. FLIN."
A sleepy grunt came from the lump on the floor beside him.
Coyote squatted, then tapped Flin's forehead. "Where's the nearest cloth shop?"
"What," Flin rasped, "the hell—"
Before he could finish, Catherine stirred.
"Coyote?" she groaned. "It's three. In the morning."
He turned to her, grinning. "Yeah, but I was thinking... maybe a fur-lined coat? Or something with belts—like, mysterious, but rogue-ish. Y'know?"
Coyote went back to sleep with a stinging chin, credits to Catherine.
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9:00 AM.
Coyote awoke to the smell of boiled eggs and the horrifying sight of Flin leaning dangerously close.
"What the—ARE YOU ABOUT TO KISS ME?" Coyote yelped, rolling to the side like a ninja.
"Just checking if you were breathing," Flin said calmly, sipping tea.
Catherine walked in, tying her hair back. "You still want clothes?"
Coyote sat up, rubbing his eyes. "Yes. I've been thinking. This ratty tunic is not doing my charm any favors."
Catherine sighed. "Fine. My old history teacher used to dress like a circus wizard. Refused to wear anything normal. Left his outfit here before he quit."
Flin raised an eyebrow. "The Gandalf guy?"
"Something like that," Catherine said. "You want it or not? We're not paying for anything new."
The coat was long and ash-black, fastened at the chest with interlocking leather straps and steel loops. Intricate patterns were stitched faintly into the fabric—somewhere between tribal symbols and alchemical glyphs. A worn, layered sash cinched the waist.
Coyote stared at his reflection in a cracked mirror,"old man gandalf"
He muttered his name with a bitter sweet smile.
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