"That's because it is a mortar and pestle." The Shepherd rubbed gently at his bald head under the hood of his dark gray cloak. "And I must say that I am very bad at flying it." He shrugged with a roll of his shoulders. "But you know what they say. Teach a goat to eat with his hands and no longer will he graze."

And the Shepherd returned Thrull's bow, a familiar glint in his eyes. And just as he was about to speak, a gust of astral wind caught his cloak, blowing it aside just enough to reveal what he was wearing underneath. It was a lustrous, glossy black, like the skeleton of a beetle's shell, and it framed his willowy shape with smooth, graceful lines--the tails of the tuxedo flapped behind him in the same breeze, and about his neck, a perfectly tied bow-tie was tied. With a suddenly nervous cough, the Shepherd cast his eyes to the side, his face darkening into what could have been a blush of embarrassment, if rocks could blush.

"...I...ehm. Didn't have time to change."