-> All of a sudden, she’s in pain.

Midgard’s scratching and turning circles on her shoulder, which is about as unpleasant as it sounds. She scoops up the cat-sized wyvern in her arms, but he pulls free and darts off through the maze of streets that makes up this strange city, forcing a pursuit.

Morgan curses in about ten different unladylike ways and chases after him.

They’ve gone about a block or so before Midgard pulls up and hisses at the back of a very familiar figure leaving a shop; the edges of the wyvern’s speech tickle her mind, but she’s never quite had Gerome’s or her mother’s gift in understanding the reptiles, despite her stubborn denials to the contrary.

And what’s got her loyal companion all riled up? None other than--

“M-Master Grima?!” Morgan splutters out, ducking down to grab Midgard and stop his excited nipping at your legs. “Please forgive my impudence, I don’t know what has gotten into him...!”

She looks up, meets your bewildered gaze, and in an instant recognizes the truth. Immediately she feels a burning in the corners of her eyes. No. Her Master never gave her a look like that.