The Chronicles of an International Kiwi of Mystery:
Call me Rascal; everyone else does. If you happen to be walking along a street in Oxford and hear someone yelling out, “Get back here, you little rascal!” there is a pretty good chance it is me they are chasing. Especially if that 'someone' is a tan mouse dressed in black robes that goes by the name of Sister Mary Anne. She is a nun at the orphanage where I have been living for the past year, ever since my father died. Home, sweet, stone prison. As such, I take every opportunity to make a break for it and spend time roaming through the city itself. Even if that means getting a ruler across the rump and double chores later on when the constable brings me round again.
It was on one of these occasions, when I had decided that I had had enough of classes for the day, that I first met the bird that would change my life forever. A bit on the short side, usually courageous, addicted to coffee, and definitely a mystery. I have taken it upon myself to put his adventures to paper, if for no other reason than to prove that, yes, against all odds, he did do all these things. And lived through them. That, in my opinion, is the most mysterious part of all.