At dawn, Pharaoh Gregory trotted around the farm, blowing his white chocolate collar - he was looking for his favourite stone with which he sharpened his claws. His long tail whipped the air nervously, leaving notches in the sand. Suddenly a rustle came from behind a bush of blackthorns. Grigory froze, pressed his ears, and looked into the thicket.
There, fluffing up her golden-brown feathers, a turian hen was covering three fluffy chickens. Her long neck arched in a martial arc, and her clawed paws prepared to leap. Gregory flicked his collar, but the hen did not retreat - only flapped her wings loudly, showering the enemy with feathers.
Pharaoh recoiled, remembering how he himself had once protected someone from danger. His collar slowly fell away and his tail lowered, hiding the sting with milky locks of hair. Carefully, as if afraid of crushing a twig, he pushed a bunch of berries toward the chicken brood with his paw. The chickens, smelling the sweet flavour, timidly peeked out from under their mother.
The hen watched warily as Gregory, glistening partly with scales on his tail, strode towards the rock. Beneath it lay his stone - blue, veined, like a map of the starry sky. That evening the pharaoh tried to sharpen his claws to the accompaniment of contented quacking, and on the fence sat three golden lumps, basking in the sunset rays.
From then on Gregory avoided the blackthorn bush, and the hen pecked at the grains by his rock - a silent pact of those who understood the language of flicking collars and open wings