#presale

~ * ~

Ozma’s yellows mixed with Mitra’s fluttering purples, bathing all in sickly orange... and Delgrij winced. Petting Infae’s back, as whimpers threatened chirps, he feigned confidence, “We are safe, the beast is away.”

But worry sought to mark him liar for how he studied the sprout’s movements, crawling about the nuru’s back to test walls and stretch for ceiling. A ceiling too close, forcing Delgrij to his stomach to avoid scraping antlers through the shield of Faerai’s shadow.

“Chip’d, chip’d,” Mitra muttered, flitting from side to side, careful not to touch the black dome. “Hard clay is all ways!”

“Not all ways,” Faerai offered, voice quiet for the echo of the little light’s as she motioned to a fresh gash, “Can dig this way, but clay too cold. Can little light heat?”

Hot fingers stabbed into chill clay as Mitra’s core popped and flared, forcing Faerai back a step as rock crumbled into sand.

“Heat shiny ‘nuff,” Mitra creaked.

Faerai nodded and watched as the little light’s tiny hands pressed deeper, dripping molten clay down the wall. She flashed and bruised, light darkening, but continued. Wriggling herself into her divot she tossed hot dirt out and she squeaked in tighter.

Deeper and deeper she dug until she became a bruised glow in the dim.

Squeaking with the discarded clumps of dirt thrown back at her, Faerai stuffed them under a softly squeaking Infae. Over and over she gripped and stuffed clay too warm until Mitra’s minuscule crawl-way flashed violet and echoed with a creaky whine.

Paws yet full of dirt, Faerai knelt and searched, finding Mitra blinking up at her. “Little beastie digs now?” the little light asked, presenting chipped and dulled fingers.

Allowing her by, careful not to waste air on words, Faerai indicated where she stored the dirt before turning to the hole. There she stabbed a paw into the warmed clay and began widening the crawl-way. With another paw in the passage soon yawned, devouring the meager orange light and spreading wide as Faerai knelt to crawl inside.

As Delgrij soothed Infae, Mitra waited at the far wider hole, dimly lit eyes studying the hair-thin tendril of Ozma leading down the passage. Stagnant breaths came and went, breathed shallow and careful, without light or sound before the tendril vibrated.

Flashing as the little beastie breached the tunnel—damp with sweat and covered in dust and bits of dry root—Mitra spun bright and pink.

Faerai gasped for air, thick and hot as it was, but remained whole…and smiling, “We smell home, pulse... or two... if keep this way.”