"People are blind. Never seeing us," the old one said sweetly to the neon birds, in his own tongue.
His voice (if you could call the sounds an animal makes a voice) was soft, deep and fatherly.
"Never knowing we ever lived," Dipping his head to nuzzle one of his bird's neon orange plumage the old one added "Well almost all of them, more than one or two have take a bad 'trip' to see us."
The silly foul jest pecked at one of the many mushrooms that live on the old ones flesh.
It was his mate that first brought this breed of foul to the valley of minstrel mushrooms.
He began to think as he looked over himself in a shallow pit; it was dug many years ago and filled with water for the critters to drink.
He stood five feet at his shoulders his back sloped down, much like a German shepherd's.
His skin was a soft colored white leather covered in velvet fur and bright mushrooms and other fungi; this was the only thing that marked his age visibly.
Only the elders of this valley had th