Board Thread:Roleplay/@comment-5664762-20130707075225/@comment-10860529-20130711042713

The sound of the mic caused Cynthea to jump, a short, grey feather shaken from her hair. Any shaken, mantra-induced sayings of "I'm not molting I'm not molting I'm not molting" were spared until their groups were assigned. Following along they resided in a low mumble until, once with Mr. Piper, they all but died out.