He sat on the front step of his modest, friendless abode, watching a squirrel twitch confusedly at the base of a tree. It had been busy for weeks storing various things in anticipation of the winter to come. Curiously, it seemed such rodents despised company. Loneliness was their desired state. This is what came, he concluded morosely, of eating nuts and seeds.
The creature's present confusion had no outwardly apparent cause, suggesting to Imid that the source of its troubles came from within, a particular cavort of agitation in its tiny brain. Perhaps it was experiencing an ethical crisis, making it jump about so in chittering rage.
All the fault of that damned manservant, Imid told himself. Mulled wine and rustleaf and durhang, a veritable cornucopia of forbidden substances, and his indifferent aplomb in the consumption of those items had taken Imid's breath away. Cruel as a squirrel, he'd been. Driving the Saint of Glorious Labour to distraction, and worse...thoughts of violence.
Yes, rage and violence, those are the hallmarks of squirrels and their cruelty seems to strike some semblance of fear (OK, agitation) in the thoughts of Imid. Nice to see that Erikson recognizes these wondrous squirrelly qualities, no?