This may be the worst day of Gremory's life.

The two of them glance promise of gold as the fish dart around in distressed circles just under the surface of the water. Noonday didn't even have to voice his idea for Gremory to know what was brewing in his head.

"Sir," the feline begins, "you do know I'm a cat, correct?"

"Your point?" Noonday replies.

Gremory looks back towards the water, following the fish with his eyes and pretending that his stomach isn't grumbling. They've been down in the buried kingdom for what feels like an eternity, making do with moss on the walls and fat rodents scurrying between the rock face; it was enough for Gremory to get on but Noonday hasn't been eating as much. There's a veritable feast laid out in front of them and they'd be silly to squander the opportunity.

The cat sticks one paw in the water and immediately draws it back. Beside him, Noonday huffs with a roll of his eyes.

"Stop being a baby, Gremory," Noonday berates.

"Heaven forbid you get your hooves wet."

"What would you have me do?" Noonday says, exasperated. Then: "Get in the water before I throw you in."

So Gremory does, if only to save himself the embarrassment of being tossed in.