“Where are we even going?” “Omg Pidge would you just shut up for like, five seconds? We’re almost there.” “Maybe I just like the sound of my own voice, Lance. Not everything is about you, you know. Maybe I’m just–”
“…This is what I wanted to show you.” “…oh.” “Happy Birthday, Pidge.”
It’s Pidge’s birthday so obviously I had to draw SOMETHING.
In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit. Not a nasty, dirty, wet hole, filled with the ends of worms and an oozy smell, nor yet a dry, bare, sandy hole with nothing in it to sit down on or to eat: it was a Hobbit-hole, and that means comfort.