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Once again Mason found himself with a meal of insects and his stomach formed a knot “Uh that’s ok… I think I’m ready to move onto the training now!”

Perryn frowned, “Oh no. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day! I’m not letting you skip it!”

Mason’s stomach growled and he sighed “Yeah, yeah. You’re right…” He scooped up a plateful of the fried insects and stared at them for a moment. 

Bugs don’t count as animals. He lied to himself. I can still be vegetarian and eat bugs right?! It doesn’t matter, they're demons anyway!

That’s wrong. He answered himself. Like it or not insects are animals, and although some species have origins from Nihilian demons in your world that still makes them animals! It still makes them meat! Especially in this world! This is wrong!

“But does it matter?” He asked himself out loud.

“Hmm?” Perryn looked up from their own meal, they were almost finished. 

“Hey wait a minute. I thought tundras only ate veggies?”

Perryn chuckled “Not all of us. How’d you think we survive the frigid Southern Icefields? Not much green there!”

“Oh,” Mason stared at his plate once again, his stomach still growling.

“Hey, we don’t have all day you know,” Perryn said “I get this is all new to you, but the Guild of Osiris isn’t a vacation spot. We're here to kill a monster that’s been killing and disrupting the lives of innocent dragons and beastfolks. You’re here to help us. If you don’t think you can handle being here that’s fine, but-”

“No! No, I want to be here! I want to help! I can stay, I can… Eat this plate full of bugs…” Mason took a deep breath. Just stop thinking about it. Why are you so hung up over this? It’s just food. Who cares if they’re animals. It’s food and you’re hungry. You’ve been through so much and you can’t eat some little bugs? Don’t be an idiot Mason! He opened his mouth and scooped up and clawful of bugs, shoveling them into his mouth. He swallowed them whole, without chewing. He could feel their hard exoskeletons slide down his throat. He wanted to gag, but stifled it. He continued to shovel the entire plateful into his mouth until the plate was clean.

“All done!” Mason grimaced “Ready to train!”

Murderer. The thought popped in Mason’s mind.

It was just food. He protested to himself.

You vowed never to eat meat again. You told yourself you’d never have something die just so you could eat! You’re a liar! A horrible person! 

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

Maybe you should just-

“Hey Mason? Are you feeling alright?” Perryn broke Mason’s train of thought.

“Just fine!” Mason lied “Just excited to uh kill Luminax!”

“Good! But training first. I want to make sure you’re ready for that beast.”

Perryn led Mason into an open area beside their camp. They tossed Mason a helmet with ram horns, a metal vest and a shield.

“Put on this armor and I’ll find you a sword.”

Mason did as he was told. He shifted uncomfortably from the extra weight.

“Looking spiffy!”

“I-I am?”

“Here’s your sword.” It was a standard blade. Nothing fancy, but sturdy.

“Thank you,” Mason took the sword and held it in his claws, not quite sure how to grip it right.

Perryn took out their own sword and held it delicately at their side. “Grip it overhand, like this.” They showed Mason how they were gripping their own sword “This way you can turn and pivot your hand, guiding the blade where it needs to go.”

Mason nodded, transfixed. He adjusted his grip as he watched Perryn.

“Good. Now we’re going to go over some basic drills. You’ll be a sword master in no time, trust me!”

Mason was careful to copy everything Perryn did. If the tundra lunged forward, so did Mason. If Perryn slashed, Mason followed. Perryn nodded in approval and it made Mason’s heart flutter.

“Now I want to see some target practice,” Perryn turned to the training dummy nearby. It was shaped like a guardian dragon, but at a much smaller scale. Perryn began to repeat the moves they just went over with Mason onto the dummy and it was left with a few more marks on it.

“Your turn now,” Perryn backed away from the dummy and let Mason move in. He took a deep breath and began to slash at the inanimate object. He hit his target well.

Just like Muerto.

He stopped.

“Need a break?” Perryn asked “You deserve it. You’ve got twenty minutes. Use that time to grab a bite or take a walk.”

Mason chose to walk despite still being hungry. But that turned out to be a mistake as his mind wouldn’t leave him alone.

You’re a horrible person.

Yes. I know.

“Hi there again!” It was that kid Quinn. “How has your training with Perryn been? Perryn is pretty cool! They’re my friend!”

“That’s nice,” Mason tried to walk past the kid but they just started to walk alongside him.

“What do you think of the Emperor? I think it's kinda scary! But cool too!”

“Listen kid,” Mason said, “I really need to get back to Perryn.”

“I’ll come with you!” Quinn grinned with both of their mouths.

Mason glared at them, but they didn’t get the hint and continued to trail along.

“Hey, is it weird having feathers?” They poked Mason “Because I think it would be weird!”

“Don’t touch me,” Mason snapped.

Quinn giggled and lifted their claw toward Mason, stopping only when it was just half an inch away from his unkempt feathers.

“I’m not touching you! I’m not touching you!” Quinn grinned, sticking their tongue out of their first mouth as their second one gleefully taunted Mason.

Mason stopped in his tracks and turned toward Quinn.

“You know…” He loomed over the Shadeling “You wouldn’t be the first kid I’ve killed.”

Quinn frowned and whimpered. They backed away from Mason and scampered off.

Guilt washed over Mason.

Now why did I have to do that? They were just being a kid.

Because you’re a bad, horrible, no good person. That’s why.

“Ready to get back to it?” Perryn asked Mason as he returned.

Mason nodded.

“Good because we’re going to do some sparring now.”

“O-oh cool!”

“We’ll take it slow, since you’re still learning.”

“R-right.”

Perryn slashed at Mason and he blocked and vice versa. They were in sync. It was almost like a dance. Lunge, perry, perry lunge. Slash and block. Side step, dodge. 

Mason thought about slicing through flesh, and seeing black blood fall. He stopped and forgot to block. Perryn hit his leg, the sword slicing through.

Mason fell over. He didn’t make a sound but seethed as the red blood dripped out.

“Oh shit,” Perryn ran over to him “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I thought you… Never mind. We need to see Blanche. Lean on me.”

Mason did as the tundra asked and pressed his body against Perryn’s body. They were muscular, yet fat and with a layer of floof. Mason wished he could have been able to rest against Perryn in better circumstances. The tundra would have made a great pillow, but at the moment Mason was too embarrassed and in pain to think much about possible futures snuggling against a big fat fluffy dragon hunk. But he could allow a little indulgence.

Pendejo. Mason cursed to himself. Of course I fucked up a simple training exercise.

“What’s this?” Laz landed behind Perryn and Mason, her shadow enveloping them. “Did Mason get hurt? On his first day of training no less?” She snickered.

“It was my fault,” Perryn turned around briefly just to glare at the banescale “I wasn’t paying attention. He had clearly stopped, and I should have as well.”

“Admit it,” Laz snarled, “Karyu was wrong. Mason is weak. We don’t need him.”

“It’s his first day! And he did very well!”

“He got hurt like a little baby!”

“It was my fault! And he’s still learning!”

“He shouldn’t be learning! We need fully fledged warriors not whatever the fuck Mason is!”

“Karyu said-”

“Fuck Karyu!”

“Whoa there Laz, I’m taken.” Karyu fluttered into the conversation, perching on Perryn’s back. “What’s going on here?”

“Mason has an injury, so we’re heading to Blanche’s. But Laz is being a nuisance.”

“Ah gotcha. I’ll go tell Blanche what's up so xey can get ready.” Karyu flew away.

“You know I’m right,” Laz said as she too flew somewhere else, leaving Mason and Perryn alone.

“She’s not right,” Perryn assured Mason “You’re meant to be a warrior. Karyu is right, you’ve got the spirit of one. With some more proper training you’ll be ready for Luminax in no time. Laz is going to be eating her words when you help us to take down that monster.”

“Th-thanks,” Mason appreciated Perryn’s words, but couldn’t help but agree with Lazarus.

I don’t belong here. Why the fuck am I here?

They finally arrived at Blanche's tent. Xey were standing next to Karyu, with bandages and a few mystery vials.

“Sweet the alien hurt himself,” Xey flew over to Mason and placed a wet cloth on his wound. He flinched, but didn’t make a noise.

“Looks like you were just grazed, so no big deal,” Blanche cleaned the wound and then popped the lid of one of the vials “This is bottled Nature magic. It’s diluted though, but that’s what makes it perfect for healing. This will sting.” Xey dumped the vial into the wound and xey wern’t lying about how it felt. Then xey wrapped the wound in bandages.

“Get a good night of rest and you should be healed by morning.”

“Wait really?”

“I just gave you bottled elemental magic. Yes really. Now go before I decide I need a blood sample for… Research.”

Mason got to his feet and already the pain had subsided.

“No more training for today,” Perryn said “I’m sorry you got hurt. But I was telling the truth earlier, you did really well! I’m proud of you. And since Blanche said you should be healed by morning, be prepared to get up early again. We’ll try again tomorrow.”

Mason nodded.

“And don’t listen to Lazarus, alright?”

“Alright.”

“Do you want me to help you get to your room?”

“No, no I think I’ll be fine.”

“Ok cool. See you tomorrow then Mason. Good night.”

“Night.” 

Mason limped up the hill and into his room. The temptation to snoop through Perryn’s things was still there, but no way was Mason going to do something so risky with an injured leg. Instead he unpacked his art supplies and sat up by the shoddy little desk his room came with. He began to sketch. And then he began to erase, and sketch again. Erase. Sketch. Erase.

Mason scowled at the scribbles he had created and tore the paper to shreds.

“Useless!” He snapped the pencil.

I’m useless.

Yes. Yes you are.

I should have stayed dead.

Yes you should have.

I don’t belong here.

No you don’t.

Have I ever belonged anywhere?

Pendejo. What do you think?

Mason stood up. His leg gave him a sharp pang of pain, but it was manageable.

“Maybe I don’t belong here. And I may be a pendejo. But I’m here now. And I want to help. Genuinely I do. There’s a monster that needs to die. And I want to do what I can to help slay it. I’m staying. I’m going to train. And Luminax is going down. I’ll make myself belong.”

He put away his art supplies.

“It’s a shame Flare gave me these. I’m probably not going to use them. Because no matter what I do, I can’t draw like I could when I was human. When I was alive. I guess my stories really did die when I did. Who’s going to care about two human boys in a space age romance in this world? No one will even know what the fuck I’m talking about.It’s best to let that dream die. That Mason is dead. Time for the new Mason.”

"More espresso, less depres--?" Specter blinked, tilting his head, "Dear, are you sure you're okay?"

"I will be, once I get my coffee. And don't call me 'dear.'" Demelin tried to move around Specter, only for him to reach out and grab the cup. She grabbed it back, but he didn't let go, resulting in a tug of war. Which she figured Specter was being playful with, as he no doubt had the strength to bowl her over, "L-Let my cup go!"

"Too much coffee! Drink some water, or you'll hate yourself later!"

"Joke's on you, I'm going to hate myself regardless!"

"You really need to talk to someone!"

"What, like you?"

"I'm a curse, not a damn therapist!"

The two continued playing tug-of-war with the mug, until Specter gave a hard tug, at the same time Demelin gave a hard tug, as well. Surprised, their grip loosened on the mug, causing it to fall out of their hands, and onto the floor.

And into a million pieces.

The shattering of the glass seemed to echo in the apartment, before Demelin let out an aggravated sigh, running a hand through her mane, giving Specter a hard look. The curse actually shirked back a little. It was war, getting between Demelin and her coffee... He prepared himself for a shouting match, but instead, she turned around and started putting her novel stuff away.

"Good job, idiot. Now I need to get another mug! And you're damn lucky it wasn't my favorite mug, or you'd be in a world of pain right now."

Specter didn't even bother to correct her, as he watched her pass by him to put her stuff away, "Where are you going?"

"To get another mug!"

"But you have plenty of mugs!"

"If I don't have the same amount, my skin itches. So we're getting a replacement. Let's go!"

Specter sighed, knowing he had no choice but to follow her. He was attached to her after all, being her curse and all. So where ever she went, he had to go. He could go some distance away from her, but not too far. He'd end up tugging her along, and he didn't want to know how she'd react to that...

The slamming of the door got his attention, realizing Demelin had already left.

"Wait up!"

---

"You owe me for that mug, idiot."

"I don't have any money, darling. Joys of being a curse, I don't have to pay for anything."

Demelin sighed for the umpteenth time that day, as she walked along the street. Specter was beside her in his skeletal form, being invisible to everyone else. He floated around her, as if wondering what to say. The motion was making Demelin annoyed and she waved him away, "Stop that, you're going to make me run into someone. Again."

"Why do you need the same amount of mugs? Because it makes your skin itch?" asked Specter, genuinely curious. Demelin caught onto that, and sighed. Again.

"I can't really explain it." she started, "There's certain things I need to have in my life, and in a certain way, otherwise it makes me itch. It bugs me, to the point of being physically annoying. So I have to make it right, otherwise it'll drive me insane. So, to keep what's left of my sanity, I have to get things the right way."

Specter hummed in thought, going over what Demelin told him. He didn't quite get it...but he did at the same time. It was strange. BUt it was very Demelin, if that made sense.

"I still don't get how it makes your skin itch--" He started, only to be jerked slightly, as if the leash he was on was tugged taunt. He looked around, only to see no sign of Demelin. Just a street with no Tundra (not his Tundra, at least), and the mouth of an alleyway...

---

Demelin froze, as the dragon holding her tightened their grip on her. She felt something tug, and she struggled, but their grip got to be even tighter, more painful. But before she could bite the hand covering her mouth, a voice whispered into her ear.

"There you are, my dear...."

Her eyes widened, and she immediately stepped away, as soon as their grip loosened, whirling around to see who it was, "Aspen...!"

The Imperial stood there, smirking at her, as he folded his arms over his chest, "It's been awhile, sweetie. Thought you'd run away, for a minute there."

Demelin swallowed hard, her hands gripping the straps of her bag slung over her shoulder, "No...I didn't run. ...You know I can't run."

"That's right." purred Aspen, "You can't run. I'd just follow. You can't escape me. So...why have you been trying?"

She squeezed the straps even tighter, "I haven't been. You'd know if I was hiding from you..."

"Are you being smart with me?" asked the Imperial, standing up tall, his tone losing it's playfulness, as he became serious, "Don't get smart with me, doll, it won't end well."

Demelin let out a breath through her nose, but said nothing.

"Now, the reason why I dragged you here." said Aspen, holding out his hand, "Money. You're late with what you owe me."

Demelin stared down the loan shark, before looking at his extended hand, "I don't have it. I had to pay rent the other day, and I won't get paid for my book sales, until next week. Unless you want me to lose my apartment here, and live on the streets, you're just going to have to wait--"

The back handed slap echoed in the alleyway, the force of it making her crash into the wall. She tasted blood on her lip, her mind buzzing.

"I said, don't be smart with me." growled Aspen, leaning in, lips pulled into a snarl, "I'm capable of much worse, so that was a warning. Next time..."

He cracked his knuckles, and Demelin actually flinched. She hated this. Why had she even tried to 'partner' with him? She opened her mouth to reply, only to stop, as she heard a voice from the mouth of the alleyway.

"THERE you are, dear!"

Turning around, it was Specter. And, judging by the noise Aspen made, he could see him. He actually had clothes on himself, looking like just a normal Ridgeback on the street. And he was tall. Much taller than Aspen. Going to her side, Demelin realized just how much smaller she was, compared to the two dragons.

"Wh-Who are you, huh?" asked Aspen, looking the curse up and down, nervously.

"I'm her boyfriend, jackass." said Specter, putting an arm around Demelin, pulling her close to his side, "And you are?"

Aspen chuckled, "If she's your girlfriend, you better keep her on a short leash. She keeps wandering like this, and she might leave y--"

"She's not a pet, asshole." growled Specter, taking a step towards the loan shark, "She doesn't need to be kept on a leash. She can wander as she pleases, because I know she'll come back to me. You got anything else you want to say about my girl?"

Aspen swallowed, looking up at the tall Ridgeback. He finally glanced down at Demelin, pointing at her, "Next week. You better be on time." With that, he turned on his heel, and left rather quickly, leaving just the two of them in the alleyway.

"What an asshole!" Specter sighed, shifting into his normal form, no doubt becoming invisible to others once more, "What was he doing, harassing you?"

Hearing nothing from Demelin, he looked at her. He noticed the blood on her lip, and the beginnings of some swelling. Her eyes were glazed slightly, and her grip on her bag was like iron. And...she was shaking? What exactly had this dragon done to her?

Something bubbled in Specter's belly. Anger at the Imperial. And...protectiveness towards Demelin? How...strange...

"Hey..." he said softly, becoming solid again, as he touched her, gently, "Hey, let's go back home, okay? Let's get that lip looked at."

Koi's ears folded back. He didn't like the sound of that. Quickly, he made his way to the alleyway where the noises were coming from, and came upon quite the scene.

There were three dragons--a Pearlcatcher, an Imperial, and a Mirror. The Imperial was holding a bag, while the Mirror and Pearlcatcher held onto what looked like a very young Nocturne. A kid. Just a kid. And from the looks of it, she was putting up quite the fight, struggling as much as she could.

And, judging by the bleeding hands of the two, she had bit then quite hard.

Good girl... thought Koi, grinning as he came into the alleyway, "Oi! What's goin' on 'ere?"

The three dragons startled, and the Nocturne looked surprised, large eyes full of hope that she might be rescued. Poor kid was probably tuckered out from struggling so much. Koi didn't blame her.

"What's it to ya?" snarled the Mirror, letting go of the young Nocturne, shoving her at the Pearlcatcher, "Move along, this doesn't involve ya!"

"As he said, this isn't any of your business." said the Imperial, glowering at Koi, looking him over.

"Oh, I think it is my business." said Koi, cracking his neck as he moved towards the dragons, "Y'see, the Torn Wings Mafia dun take too kindly t' child traffikin', or kidnapping 'round these parts. An' the fact yer doin' it in our territory? Ya must have big balls t' try somethin' like that."

The three dragons growled, the Pearlcatcher tossing the young Nocturne aside roughly. She yelped as she hit the ground, and quickly scrambled up and pressed herself up against the wall. Koi then saw that her wrists and ankles were bound. No way to escape.

"If you're one of Thyl'la's goons, we'll take you out no problem." said the Pearlcather, pulling out a dagger, "If you're not around to report it, we can continue doing our business."

"Pretty nasty business, if ya ask me!" snarled Koi, "Kidnappin' children in th' middle o' th' night? Sickos, th' lot o' ya!"

"That's it!" roared the Mirror, drawing two daggers and charging at Koi, "Yer dead meat!"

Koi sighed, looking over at the Nocturne, who was watching with wide eyes, "Ya might wanna turn away, little'un. This ain't gonna be pretty."

As the Mirror charged at him, Koi's own daggers materialized by him, wispy shadowy smoke holding onto the ends. They hovered, as if alive, and as the Mirror drew closer, they stilled, before a wave of Koi's hand had them shooting right at the Mirror.

One in the throat, and one in the head.

The Mirror only took two staggering steps, before he collapsed onto the ground, into a pool of his own blood.

The messy splat seemed to echo in the alleyway. The remaining two dragons stood still, shocked. But they soon recovered, and charged at Koi with battle cries. The young Nocturne, despite Koi's earlier words, continued watching, eyes wide.

The battle didn't last long. Using his cane, Koi batted aside their attacks, and let his daggers take over. They sliced at the two attacking dragons, whittling them down, before delivering the final blow for each of them. A deep cut delivered to the neck of the Imperial, and a stab in the eye to the Pearlcatcher. Both dragons went down, into a bloody mess.

Koi flicked the daggers clean, before approaching the Nocturne. To her credit, she didn't even flinch, as she looked up at him. Kneeling down next to her, Koi used the daggers to cut the ropes bonding her ankles and wrists together. There were welts left behind, and he gently ran a finger over them to soothe them.

"Ya awright, kid?"

The Nocturne nodded, swallowing hard before speaking, "Y-Yeah. Thanks."

"No prob. Jus' doin' my job." said Koi, patting her on the head, before standing up. But before he could leave, she reached out, grabbing onto his jacket, tugging it.

"D-Don't leave me, please!" she begged, using his jacket as leverage, as she stood up, "T-Take me with you!"

"Ya dun wanna come wit' me, it's too dangerous." said Koi, with a sigh, "Ye should back t' yer parents. They're probably worried, eh?"

The Nocturne's gaze turned down, large eyes looking sad, "I...don't have parents. Not...Not anymore." Her gaze went to the bodies of the three dragons, before looking down again.

Koi put two and two together, and sighed heavily. Orphaned, because she was targeted for traffiking. Poor girl...

"Yer name. What's yer name, kid?"

She perked up at that, though she still had some tears in her eyes.

"Axen. I'm Axen."

"Koi. Nice t' meetcha."

Using his cane, he scooped her up, using the nape of her shirt, before holding the cane against his shoulder, walking out of the alleyway. Axen yelped at the treatment, but didn't protest.

"Thank...Thank you for rescuing me, Mr. Koi." she said, looking over her shoulder at him.

"Bah! Mister...Dun call me that." chuckled Koi, shaking his head, "Makin' me feel old, kid."

"Then...what should I call you?" she asked, tilting her head.

"Not Mister." he said, before humming in thought, "...Try 'Sensei' since I'll be takin' ya in. Lady Thyl'la can't say no, if I'm takin' ya in as a student."

Axen nodded, smiling, "Thank you, Koi-Sensei."

The inner shrine was composed of one, simple room. Incense burned in sconces on the wall, or in alcoves filled with offerings left by other dragons. Carved bricks arranged in an intricate circular pattern, interlaid with more gold, surrounded a large fire pit. In the middle of the circular pit was a statue of the Flamecaller, interlaid with jewels, wreathed in ever-burning flames. Pyresong lay at the statue’s feet. She was partially camouflaged by the flames, but dark smoke billowed from her nostrils with every breath.

With the discovery of the banescale, a small council meeting was held- which meant no official decisions could be made by clan leadership, but the meeting was private and all speakers had to be invited personally. Tanja had become outspoken about the idea of exiling both ancients, and any others who may enter clan territory. Amhara had refrained from offering official council to the leaders, but Nivenor knew privately she agreed. Spiritdawn had advocated for imprisonment, and Struve had so far declared this was to be the case. Nivenor respected Gryzor as leader of the guard, but wished that for once he might speak against the wishes of his mate. Capocollo, Cheraw, and Kar had all refrained from giving their council, instead pledging to support the leaders with whatever choice they made. Ozensa had warned against hasty action taken against dragons sent by the deities themselves- a statement that had not gone over well with her friend, Tanja, and ended the meeting in an uproar. Throughout all of it, the dragons kept turning to Nivenor, and each time, Nivenor was at a loss for what to say.

Nivenor grew up in Ashfall Waste, surrounded by stories of the ancient war between fire and ice. She was taught the local coatl tongue, and even some of the formal variations of the language. All in all, though, she had been more concerned with fletching arrows or exploring the forges than studying the lore of her homeland. This was the first time she had even stepped foot in the shrine since coming to live in Rivensong, outside of the Flameforger's Festival.

Nivenor approached the edge of the fire. Pyresong stirred, burning eyes flickering open to fix on her intently. Those eyes burned through her, but Nivenor forced herself to hold the gaze. Slowly, intently, she placed a single gem on the edge of the brick. The heat singed her claws as the light from the fire burst through the gem in a hundred scattered fractals of rainbow light.

“Tell me the story of the Bane Wars.” Nivenor steeled herself. “Sing me the Song of Fire.”

"I know what poxhound smells like," Keyser says. He looks up, hand dropping away from his beard. His eyes are a blue so dark they're nearly purple. Fittingly, they remind her of the Sea -- but only the water that thrashes the Rusting Shores, bruise-coloured where the Sea and Wasteland meet to tentatively shake hands. The stippled pattern of the fur on his face makes the hard line of his mouth almost impossible to read. "This ain't it. This smells like..." Keyser's hand, now deprived of beard to worry at, gestures at the air as if to conjure some inspiration on how to describe the smell. "Smells like wet an' rot an' somethin' unnatural, somethin' I ain't smelled before 'cept when it come 'round to bite my bucks to hell an' back."

Buckshot nods. She's of no mind to argue with the rambra herder -- point of fact, she's inclined to agree with him. No one's yet seen whatever's been killing Keyser's rambras, but the grist mill of Rachidian seems convinced that it's a pack of poxhounds, driven in close to civilisation by a particularly uncompromising dry season. While poxhounds aren't unheard of in this area, the length of time they've been worrying the edges of the Rachidian rambra herd -- nearly a month, now -- and their supposed number, is.

That, and none of the corpses look exactly right for a poxhound kill. Buckshot lowers her eyes from Keyser to the carcass at his feet. A full-grown rambra buck, cut down in his prime by what looks to be one huge, savage bite to the -- well, the all of him. The rambra's middle is gone. There's no sign of tearing or chewing at the abdomen, because the abdomen isn't there, with no single scrap of rib or shred of intestines to show what might have happened to it. Even the biggest poxhound pack would struggle with the task of biting into a rambra like an apple.

"You seen things nobody's got a name for," Keyser says, drawing her attention up from the rambra corpse and back up to him. Keyser indicates the corpse between them with one hand. "Any of this seem familiar?"

Buckshot feels her mouth set into a firm, slightly disappointed line. She sucks in air through her back teeth and lets it out through her nose. "It might."

-

2.

The Old Carcosa Place is a two days' ride from the heart of Rachidian. Buckshot gets an early start on the first day, leaving hours ahead of first miasma-glow. Her wife, Strawfoot, is away on business still, so Buckshot leaves her a note taped to the coffee pot, the only place Buckshot can think of that has even a fifty percent chance of Strawfoot seeing it.

Standing on an outcrop overlooking Old Carcosa, Buckshot figures she'll be back before Strawfoot even has a chance to miss the note and wonder where she is. The loose red soil of Old Carcosa is disturbed, but not by what she's looking for: of the serpentine persuasion, the biggest thing to tunnel through here in the last few days is a bonesnake. They're common in this area, though they shun inhabited areas -- something about vibrations in the soil making them shy.

The sun has set the miasma along the horizon aflame by the time she's satisfied nothing she's looking for is hiding out in Old Carcosa. The land here is rotten with holes, the remains of tunnels collapsed after the cult who built them disappeared in thin air. Buckshot sets her camp up beside the most familiar of them, a massive pit still bearing the sharpened poles she put in there herself, what feels like a minor age ago.

Her Wastebred, Rotgut, murmurs softly at her in the encroaching dark. With only an oil lantern for light, the Wastebred's eyes take on a glow that would be unsettling if it weren't so familiar. Buckshot thinks of other tricklight eyes she's seen around here, not Wastebred but something else -- a dragon, of a kind.

"You best already be long gone," Buckshot says, staring into the dark where she knows the spike-pit roughly is. She pulls her hat brim down low over her eyes, settles herself against her bedroll, and closes her eyes. "You big dumbass."

-

3.

In the end, Buckshot is wrong on both counts: she isn't home before Strawfoot even has time to read the note, and the big dumbass isn't gone.

She realises that first one on the return trip back toward Rachidian. Traveling at night in the Wasteland is a fool's errand, but Buckshot figures setting out from Old Carcosa in the hour or so before first light out to be just about fine. It's somewhere in the vicinity of Biskbrill that she sees a lantern bobbing, the light outlining the shape of a dragon in a long coat and a broad-brimmed hat, carrying a rifle slung lazy-like over one arm.

Biskbrill's always attracting the rough kind -- she should know, she about lives there herself. The stranger strides out into the bridlepath and turns to face her and Rotgut. They're lean and slender and keep the spidery fingers of their wings spread to either side of them to make themselves look bigger, as skydancer chicks sometimes do before they figure things out. Buckshot might laugh at the display, if not for the rifle. Rotgut draws up with a snort, and from the tension under the saddle Buckshot can tell she's equal parts irritated as wary.

The stranger sets their lantern down by their feet, drawing sharp shadows everywhere and making their face hard to see. They lay one hand gently on the stock of the rifle, still cradling it over one arm in that lazy way, but Buckshot can get the gist. The lantern makes picking out their colours difficult, but she gets the impression of sickly yellow mottling on the only part of their neck that's exposed and lit up just right.

"This here's a toll road," the stranger says. Reedy and rangy County accent, probably something from deep in the Crinoline. Probably hitched a ride with a caravan bound for Biskbrill, looking for greener pastures -- so to speak.

Buckshot leans forward in the saddle a little, making a show of looking from one side of the bridlepath to the other. This part of Rachidian is still far enough out to be nearly considered Deep Country proper, and it's all flat and broad accordingly -- nothing like the more uneven, hilly tableland of the Gold Dust region another day's ride north of here. Hell, the stranger doesn't even have a proper lean-to or cover, just an opportunistic road sign which, now she's looking at it, she's pretty sure they put up themself, maybe all of five minutes before she was a smudge on the horizon.

"Well, then, suppose I'll just go around," Buckshot says, putting a little of the politely confused tourist in her voice. She adjusts her grip on Rotgut's reins so she can indicate the flat, unobstructed view of the land around her. "Just give your toll a berth and my pocketbook a breather."

Well, at least they give her the time to finish her quip. The other road agent still manages to blindside her -- quiet as anything, the only sound they're responsible for is the warning rumble of Rotgut when the Wastebred finally scents them. This new arrival reaches up and grabs Buckshot square around the middle, hands hooking into her belt and holster, hauling on her hard enough to unseat her and send her tumbling to the ground.

"We'll just help ourselves to whatever you carryin', then," the one who grabbed her, a ridgeback a good head and half taller than her, says. The other stranger laughs, a high, irritating noise.

Behind her, Rotgut lets out another warning rumble that turns into a full-blown bray. Buckshot can hear the Wastebred rear, feet striking the soil behind her, and gets a brief flash of Rotgut leaning over her, mouth open and tusks bared, giving the strange ridgeback a stern unhand-my-colt growl.

Buckshot scrambles backward, trying to put distance between her and the larger opponent, who ignores Rotgut and leans in closer to grab Buckshot by the front of her shirt and haul her away from the Wastebred, turning so his back is to the animal. Rotgut growls again, louder, and follows them, stretching her neck to catch the ridgeback's shoulder in her teeth and bite down, hard.

"Shit!" the ridgeback yelps. He flails at Rotgut, losing enough focus on his grip on Buckshot that she manages to grab his arm and twist it free of her vest. The rifle goes off on the other side of Rotgut, and the Wastebred bellows, shying in surprise and releasing the ridgeback's shoulder. For one horrified instant, Buckshot is sure that damn bandit just shot Rotgut and tries to shoulder past the ridgeback to get to her mount.

Buckshot's movement draws the ridgeback's attention back to her and he wallops her across the face with his newly liberated fist, apparently undeterred by the big dark stain spreading down the sleeve of his shirt where the Wastebred bit him. Buckshot doesn't hold it against herself when she falls, vision momentarily blinkered with stars. God damn, but that ridgeback's got a mean left hook.

There's another gunshot from the other road agent, then a querying shout followed by a panicked one. "Newsom!" the other road agent shouts, fear evident in their voice. There's an abortive, alarmed noise from the direction of the other road agent, unintelligible to Buckshot's rattled ears.

The ridgeback -- Newsom, apparently -- pauses, still looming over Buckshot, cocks his head toward the other stranger and says, "Yeah?"

Silence. Or -- not entirely. While the other stranger's gone quiet, there's a distinctive sound playing out all the same, a disquieting, viscerally unpleasant wet noise like somebody doing a piss poor job of mopping a wet wooden floor. Rotgut has stopped growling and huffing; Buckshot can see her outline against the night-side of the miasma, behind the ridgeback, and she's got her ears pricked in interest toward the direction of the sound. She looks fine, unharmed; the road agent either shot wide of the mark or pointed their gun at something else.

"Abscove?" Newsom tries. He jabs a finger at Buckshot, "Don't you fuckin' move."

Buckshot, still trying to recover clear vision in the one eye, waits only until Newsom's turned his back to her before she scrambles over the dirt toward Rotgut, reaching up into the dark to catch the reins and haul herself up. She leans heavy on the Wastebred without meaning to, running her hands over the animal's side, checking for holes.

"You all right, girl?" She keeps her voice low. Rotgut rumbles, but doesn't stop looking beyond Buckshot, towards where Newsom went. Buckshot follows her line of sight.

It's still dark enough to make things indistinct, but she can see Newsom draw up short from where his buddy's been, and he says something that begins with What and ends with hell and then he yelps as something big detaches from the shadows drawn sharp and stark by the lantern and envelops him in a wave. Newsom manages one scream, then half of another, and then his voice cuts out with a wet, muffled gurgle.

Backlit by the lantern, Buckshot finally gets her eyes to focus enough to see it: the monster of Sallowhill, the beast of Old Carcosa, the feral that used to be an imperial and maybe still mostly was, folding over its massive limbless serpentine hindquarters with Newsom lodged near to his waist in its mouth. The glow of the oncoming sunrise behind Buckshot catches in the beast's eyes, igniting that familiar trickfire shine. One of Newsom's arms flails uselessly against its cheek and the beast snarls thickly, working its jaw for a moment before bearing down with enough force Buckshot can hear the ridgeback's spine snap.

"Mother's tears," Buckshot murmurs, transfixed and horrified all at once by the vision of the ridgeback disappearing down the beast's gullet. Newsom's gone in an upsettingly short amount of time.

The feral slides over its own body, planting its massive foreclaws in the dirt and hauling itself to its hunched standing height. The twisted wings, long since beyond hope of fulfilling their original function if they ever even could, touch down lightly to either side of it, helping it balance. It stretches its neck toward her, sniffing. Its familiar smell of age and rot is tinged sharply with the coppery tang of fresh blood.

Its face is stained almost black in the low light; its muzzle is dripping. Seems Newsom got the more humane treatment of the two.

Something brushes her boot. She looks down. The monster's tail has swept around close, but that's not what touches her; half-obscured by the tail's tangled plume of hair is Abscove's rifle. The stock taps lightly against the toe of her boot.

There's an unpleasant sound from the beast. It works its throat and jaw, finally cracking its mouth open enough to let out a plume of fresh meat and tooth decay stink that makes Buckshot's eyes water.

"Gun," the beast says in its rasping, creaking voice.

"You lil shit," Buckshot says.

That trickfire glow in its eyes wavers, then it blinks slowly, withdrawing its neck. The butt of the gun taps her boot again, and she snatches it up out of sheer frustration more than anything -- though she still has the sense to flick the safety over before shunting into the empty rifle holster on Rotgut's saddle.

She looks back up at the beast. It's tucked its chin close to its neck in a swan-like gesture -- a gesture that would be cute if the monster doing it wasn't a slithering nightmare with a face soaked in dragon blood. Clearly her reproachful tone has hit home, somehow; she can see it looking conspicuously down and away, avoiding her stare.

"You ate a fella," Buckshot says. At least one. She's not sure what it actually did to Abscove.

The feral licks its chops, as if remembering. It tilts its head, looking at her sidelong -- almost shyly. "Gun," it says again, with a different inflection this time, almost mournful. "You - die."

"I am well aware," Buckshot says. "Don't give you license to run around eatin' folks." Could be her imagination, but the gleaming trickfire eyes have an almost pleading look to them now. "Hell." Buckshot sighs.

Under her hands, the Wastebred shifts. Rotgut nickers softly and stretches her neck out to sniff toward the beast. The beast straightens its neck, and turns to grunt in what Buckshot swears sounds like a salutatory manner at Rotgut.

"Oh, so I'm the asshole," Buckshot mumbles. Maybe she is.  Louder, but with less evident impatience in her voice, she says, "You been terrorisin' folks around here again."

The feral tilts its head slightly away from Rotgut, looking at Buckshot with that shy sidelong stare again. Despite being fully a head taller than Buckshot when she's mounted, the beast keeps its head low, low enough to be nearly at eye level with Buckshot's knees.

"Not," the beast says, "ssserthis."

"Rambra ain't much better!" Buckshot snaps, then nearly feels bad for the outburst. The light is getting easier for her to see in now, and now she can definitely tell the beast looks chastened. "C'mon, we gotta get the hell away from here 'fore some other owl hoot comes out here sniffing for --"

Buckshot trails off in a discontented mumble and a grunt, struggling to get herself up into Rotgut's saddle. Her head hurts like hell and between the cooling-off adrenaline and getting walloped in the face, Buckshot feels like her visual acuity is still a little wobbly at best.

The beast snakes its head forward again, head tilted at a weird angle. It takes Buckshot a minute to figure out that it means to offer her its tangled crown of gnarled-looking antlers. She sighs, reaches out and grabs onto one of the smaller-looking tines, which feels about as thick around as the handle of her favourite hunting knife. The beast anchors itself with its stubby wings, tilting its head again so she can get a boot up on its neck and boost herself into Rotgut's saddle. She just about pitches over the other side again, but manages to grab the horn and right herself at the last second.

"We still got business, you and me," Buckshot says as the beast withdraws again and fixes her with an expectant stare.

She rubs her jaw, feels around lightly to see if anything's been broken in her face. No, but she'll have a hell of a bruise for a few days at least. It could've been much worse. She looks at the beast, then beyond it, to the outlaws' lantern still on the ground. Beside it, there's a heap of what looks like wet laundry, but which Buckshot is sure is at least half dragon meat. She looks away, closes her eyes, and sighs.

"But thanks."

4.

The miasma is well and truly aglow now as the sun makes its final climb out of the bed of the horizon. Buckshot can't help but cast a look over her shoulder every few minutes or so, convinced somebody is going to spot her riding along with her pet damn monster in tow. Would it be any stranger than anything else that happens around here, really? Buckshot's not sure. Some folks get touchy about things that look like imperials but aren't; some people get touchy about things in general. She's not sure she has the stamina for whatever that conversation would look like, or what she'd even say if questioned about her choice of company at the moment.

At least she's always had the sense to take the more deserted roads in and out of Rachidian. Opportunistic idiots aside, this area is functionally deserted, particularly at this hour.

The beast follows at a respectful distance from Rotgut's flank. It's noisy as anything, between the scrape of its scaled belly on the ground, the tug of its claws on the soil, and the ragged half-dead-generator rumble of its breathing. How the hell had it ever managed to sneak up on anybody long enough to surprise two jumpy road agents?

Rotgut keeps one ear cocked behind her the whole time but seems to otherwise take the unlikely escort in stride.

Buckshot skews them off the path, heading northward. A little more cover that way, even with the Gold Dust tableland proper being another day's ride out. She gets them to a little cluster of foothills with a scattering of bonewood trees and what might well be the ruins of an old settlement from before the time of The Flat of Her Hand. It's impossible to hide the massive beast behind any one of these trees, but at least there's something to break up the direct line of sight and diminish the feeling of being out in the open, if nothing else.

She dismounts. The beast draws to a laborious halt alongside Rotgut, an easy three times the Wastebred's not-insubstantial length, and watches her sidelong. She ignores it, instead drawing a drinking ladle from her saddlebag and pouring some water for Rotgut and then herself. When she's satisfied she can do no more for Rotgut, she comes around the other side of the Wastebred and stares at the beast. She holds the canteen out.

"Thirsty?"

The beast shakes its head.

"Suit yourself," she says. She stows the canteen back in her satchel and then resumes staring at the beast.

Buckshot's never actually seen it by full daylight before. Its imperial nature is more obvious in the full light: the scales, the raggedy shock of mane running the length of its body, the antlers growing in a jagged and many-tined crown at the top of its head. More obvious still is the rough road it's traveled; there are the knots of scarred tissue, some she knows she put there herself, and layers of grime and dust that look like enough to have some archaeological significance. Put all together like that, the red-brown mess splattered all over its muzzle and throat from tearing into that road agent hardly registers at all.

"What'm I gonna do with you," Buckshot says. The beast tilts its head, then finally looks at her more directly. In the light, without the dark turning it to orange-green trickfire, its eyecolour is a pale, almost pleasant, yellow. The stare is provocative, but Buckshot isn't sure why.

"What? You ain't listened to a damn thing I told you." Buckshot starts counting off on her fingers: "I told you to get on outta Old Carcosa, Sallowhill, anywhere near Rachidian--"

The monster's lips pull back in what Buckshot can't decide is a sneer or a pained grimace, revealing its many dagger-like teeth. Some of which, she notices, are missing or broken. "Missed - you."

Well, that closes Buckshot's mouth. She stares at the beast, at its many rows of teeth -- certainly more than the average imperial, even a feral one -- and then up at its eyes. She opens her mouth to speak, finds nothing, closes it again and puts her hands on her hips, thinking. Finally, after what feels like an age of senselessly turning a coin with tails on both sides over and over, Buckshot says, "Well, all right."

She thinks about that first encounter. Digging that pit in Old Carcosa, impaling the monster in a spike trap she'd briefly been proud of -- before she'd come to the edge and seen what she'd actually caught in it. Her eye trails along the beast's neck, tracing the scars.

"If I might, can I ask why?"

It closes its mouth and huffs through its nose. Even standing this far away from it, Buckshot swears she feels its breath ruffle the fine feathers on her cheeks. It turns its head, looking away from her, and there's almost something -- irritated? disappointed? about the beast's expression.

"Oh, yeah -- words, huh," Buckshot says after a brief pause to think it over. Not like she hasn't noticed the creature's limited vocabulary and the pained manner of its speech, but maybe it's time to stop acting like she's doing it a favour pretending she doesn't want to patronise it. "Don't s'pose you get a lot of long conversations in your day-to."

The feral says nothing, just grunts quietly.

"Oh," Buckshot says again, and then, in a whisper to herself, "Stupid." She puts one hand to her hat and tilts it back, letting the motion turn her gaze briefly miasma-ward. "You ain't got nobody to talk to."

Ironically, there's only silence after that. Buckshot watches the feral studiously not watch her, yellow-eyed gaze pointed to something that must be supremely fascinating, like a bug, or a bonewood stump, or one of the several hundred red rocks on the red soil over here. She lifts a hand to stroke the scales on Rotgut's neck absentmindedly, earning her a soft, pleased rumble from the Wastebred. After another moment of silence, Buckshot leaves Rotgut and starts walking.

She has no destination in mind, just strolls through the nearest scattering of bonewood trees. This is definitely one of those situations where the journey is more important than the destination, anyway. Still, she finds herself gravitating toward one of the more substantially intact trees and plonking herself down to sit beside it with her back resting against its rough, splinter-rich bark.

She's aimed toward the sunrise now -- and, actually, it's not a bad view. The bonewood trees peter out not far from here, granting a near-uninterrupted view of the horizon line. The sun spilling between them hits them just right to turn their pale bark into a rosy shade of tangerine, a not altogether unpleasant effect. Above the trees, as the sun climbs the curtain of the miasma, the sky shifts from acidic flame to its more usual daytime yellow-green. Buckshot's seen her fair share of Wasteland sunrises and sunsets, and really, they're not half-bad.

Still, she's not here to reflect too deeply on the artistic merits of the Wasteland sky. It takes its time, but, sure enough, she hears it: the laborious scrabbling of the feral behind her, finally slither-clawing its way after her. She turns her head slightly, toward the sound, not looking at it; the motion is enough to bring a pause to the sound of movement, and Buckshot can't help but shake her head. Big baby, she thinks but does not say.

Instead she calls, softly, "C'mon, now," and is rewarded with a resumption of the noise of its movement. Its head slides into view to her left; she can hear the rasp of its tail on the other side, curling around the tree in a half-circle.

She turns her head finally to fully look at it. It's dedicatedly not looking at her again, though this time its eyes are pointed toward the sunrise, so at least there's grounds for an argument for more interesting things to look at. Buckshot joins it, because, well, why not.

She thinks about what to say. What do folks usually talk about? Their jobs? Well. Maybe monster hunting is a poor topic of conversation when trying to soothe the lonely spirit of a monster.

Then she says, without really meaning to, "Got hitched. While you were away."

That gets some reaction. The feral tilts its head slightly to fix her with one eye. The expression is flat, with some subtle notes of non-comprehension.

"Means married, legal-like," Buckshot adds helpfully.

The beast inhales and opens its mouth, and there is something so pointed about the expression that Buckshot gets the distinct feeling she's being gently made fun of.

"Yeah, me," she says, waving the monster off dismissively, "and don't you even try to act surprised that ol' Buck can pull." She straightens up, lifts one hand to swoop the hat from her head and ruffle the feathers there that have been mashed flat with a case of chronic headwear. "I clean up good."

Silence again. Buckshot plants the hat back onto her head. Could be her imagination, but there's something less -- tense, about the beast sitting next to her. It stretches its forelimbs out in front of it, affecting a catlike stretch, claws hooking into the soil and working it like a fangar cub worrying a blanket. Buckshot watches its claws go for a moment, thinking.

"You ain't gotta go terrorisin' the locals, eatin' all the rambra or serthis grammas or what-have-you," she starts, and can see some of the tension return to the monster beside her, so she hurries to add, "if all you wanna do is talk. Or listen, as it may be. Doorbell's a mite quicker at gettin' my attention than riling up all the locals to come get me. Not that I don't mind the pay."

The monster lifts its head to look right at her. With what looks like a not-insignificant amount of will, it forces the words out: "You - never - home."

Surprised, that's what she is. Buckshot stares at the monster, startled, then laughs despite herself. "And how'd the hell would you know that?"

The expression she gets in response to that, well. Buckshot can truly say she's seen a monster look sheepish, now.

"Oh, for the--" Buckshot could throw her hat. She looks around, as if to gather patience from the timeless pacing of the Wasteland itself -- if she looks for strength, she might just as well strangle the ginormous idiot coiled up next to her. "You're damn creepy, you know that."

"Like - the ssstable," it says, as if she hadn't spoken at all. It fidgets, staring down into the dirt. Red dust sifts from its claws as it nervously picks at the fleshy pads of its own hooked fingers.

"Hey now, that's Rotgut's place, and Wastebreds got a knack for being territorial, so..." She trails off. Slowly, she leans around to look behind her, beyond the bonewood tree, toward Rotgut, who stands placidly where she left her, one leg cocked in a resting position. "Damn traitor," Buckshot says softly, almost wonderingly.

You think you know somebody.

"All right." Buckshot straightens up and puts her hands up, palms out. "We gotta lay some ground rules. Number one, no terrorisin'. No eatin' grandmas, nor rambra, nothing. And," she folds all but her pointer finger on one hand, "no spyin', stalkin', creepin', and the like." She turns to look at the beast again. "Can we agree on that?"

It shuffles, its expression doubtful. Buckshot sighs, and stretches a hand out toward it, palm open and turned up.

"How about, you prove you can ring a doorbell, I introduce you to my ma's famous blacktongue pie."

That hits home, at least. So, the feral's food-motivated. No surprise there. It eyeballs her palm, clearly looking for the secret code to initiate the promise of blacktongue pie. Buckshot gives her open hand a shake. "You put your -- hand, out like this."

The beast has to turn on its side slightly and make some adjustments, but manages the maneuver, one scarred, gnarled-looking claw held up in a rough approximation of Buckshot's gesture. She decides she doesn't trust it to hold her hand without crushing it just yet, so she clasps one of its long claws in her hand and gently shakes it, once, up-down. "Deal."

5.

Strawfoot comes out of the front door to stand on the porch as Buckshot rides up and dismounts Rotgut just the other side of the mailbox. Buckshot makes a point to take Rotgut's reins in one hand and her hat in the other, and do her best to look contrite.

"I got your note," Strawfoot calls as Buckshot walks up. She's got her shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, arms folded over to pin it in place against the nagging breeze. The shawl's embroidered with flowers and vines in a thread that nearly perfectly matches Strawfoot's own golden hair. She reaches up to pin a stray lock behind her ear and then her gaze hones in on Buckshot's face and the shiner swelling thereon. "Any-- what happened?"

"Caught up with an old friend," Buckshot says mildly.

"That the new way to say you should see the other guy?" Strawfoot says, coming slowly down the stairs to meet her. She has to hunch a little to get a look at it, brow furrowed with concern as she assesses the injury. "Your eye's swollen shut."

"Thank goodness I got the spare," Buckshot says, smiling at her wife's gentle fretting, "elsewise I'd pine away for want of seein' that lovely face."

6.

Three days later, the eye's mostly back to normal. Buckshot stands at the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, folding dough into submission.

Behind her, at their modest dining table, sits Strawfoot, transcribing a document for a client with slow, meditative strokes of her fountain pen. There's a large bowl of blacktongue peppers, already cooked and halfway to caramelised, sitting across from her on the table. The radio's on, low enough to be unobtrusive, weaving music between the scratch of Strawfoot's pen and the clink and clank of Buckshot cooking. The current song dies down, to be replaced with the voice of the Ryder, smooth and low, and Buckshot finds herself cocking an ear to hear him say, And now, may we all be so kind as to welcome our guest today--

The doorbell rings.

Buckshot pauses mid-fold, certain she did not hear that. Gotta be one of them radio studio illusions. She looks up from the counter but doesn't turn around, just listens intently.

Behind her, Strawfoot says, "Was that--?"

It rings again. Buckshot drops the dough in her hands and turns just as Strawfoot sets her pen down and gets up. "I'll get it." Buckshot watches her go, listening to her mutter to herself about visitors right before suppertime, and feels her mouth open a little too late to say no, no, she'll get it instead.

She wipes her hands hastily on the towel slung over her shoulder and hurries after Strawfoot, just in time to hear her exclaim, "What in the actual hell," in the mildest amount of shock and fear Buckshot's ever heard from anybody.

Strawfoot's opened the door and then ostensibly leapt away from it, as any decent person would upon discovering their porch has been given over to a monster many times their own size. Coiled, or more like half-recoiled on the porch is, of course, the beast.

(Buckshot's nearly certain it identified itself as Grave the last time she saw it, though its accent got even weirder at the time, and anyway, she's not about to open her mouth and introduce her wife to a hulking monstrosity named Grave, of all things.)

The beast regards Strawfoot with open surprise, then its gaze slides off her and finds Buckshot loitering like a fool in the foyer, watching them both.

"It's that friend I mentioned," Buckshot says, before Strawfoot can ask. Her wife gives her a baffled look and then, slowly, realisation seems to dawn.

"I -- see," Strawfoot says. She looks out the door again, brows raised. "You didn't mention--"

"The monster part, yes. Darlin'," Buckshot says, holding both arms out, like she can't decide which one she's going to need to hold off in the next couple of seconds, "I apologise for my indirectness."

The beast, recovered from the initial shock, stretches its neck out toward the door again. Scales scrape against the frame as it noses its head in, regarding everything it can see about the inside of the house with a mix of open suspicion and frank curiosity. Buckshot sees its gaze land on her floured-up forearms and the cloth slung over her shoulder before its eyes flicker upwards to meet hers.