Creative Corner

“Move it.”

Muddle stood beside Lyric’s belly, resisting the sudden impulse to kick the closest patch of her leathery skin as hard as he could. During what, to Muddle, had felt like an immeasurably long time– made longer by both of the Dragons’ obvious dismissal of Muddle’s genius in creating the shelter– Lyric had unwound herself from the circular hearth and laid her garments a ways from it. She moved indiscriminately– nearly thundering over him twice– and, once she had finished, curled back around the fire and stretched her massive wings up and out so that they absorbed most of its heat.

And Muddle was cold.

“Oh? What is it Muddle?” she said dismissively, barely bothering to open her eyes.

“Obviously,” he heard his voice rise and grimaced, trying in a lower affectation after a moment, “Obviously, you’ve managed to position yourself in the worst possible place–”

Lyric shifted, still distant and careless, “Alright. Where is a better place then? There’s only so much room in here, you know?”

“It’s not the physical– You’re just–!” Muddle composed himself again, “You’re blocking the fire– With your stupid wings.”

He paused, feeling strange and foolish for being in a situation where he had to ask anyone to move their wings, and was about to tack on an additional insult to the statement when Lyric’s claws closed around his tail. He let out a yelp, squirming as she hoisted him awkwardly over her shoulder and tried to set him down on the rim of the hearth– nearly dropping him into the fire.

“St-stop– D-d-don’t– What are you d-d-doing– ah–!”

He struck the stone belly first and felt fresh pain shoot from his old wounds, his eyes watering.

“Sorry,” said Lyric, raising her head so that one of her pale green eyes peaked over the edge of the stone, “I thought you’d catch yourself,” before it dropped out of sight.

Muddle muttered a few curses under his breath– descriptions of Lyric she would probably fail to understand the severity of– and curled in on himself while he tried to ignore his tail or the remains of his wings or the frills that seemed to occupy his peripheral vision at all times. He swallowed and glanced down at The Ring.

The dark, twisting blemish had grown.

Why does it keep… he clutched at his elbows, afraid that if he stared at the dark shape on the gold it would expand again.

The shack had been made so effortlessly it reminded him of his first encounter with The Ring, the way it had hummed through him so faithfully when he’d been–

So why am I still a– he felt his claws dig into his strange spotted skin and shuddered, Like this? Why–?

Looking up, Muddle saw Virtue had stood and was padding closer to the hearth, their expression clouded with concern that was both compulsive and patronizing.

“How are you two recovering from your… Encounter with the Everflow River?” they eased their weight against their staff, canting towards Muddle, “You appear to be shivering, Muddle; Are you keeping warm enough?”

“I’m fine,” he snapped, digging his claws into his scrawny arms.

“I don’t mean to be intrusive,” Virtue’s voice was even, infuriatingly so, and Muddle felt his frills rattle before he could move to hold them still. Virtue continued, “But considering how– And I promise it is not my intention to be impolite– Delicate Faes are, I would recommend addressing every possible issue to protect your own well-being.”

Muddle’s frills vibrated again and he tried to cover with a sharp, “Is that true,” directed towards where Lyric’s eye had last been.

But, before she could respond, Virtue gave him a curious look and said,

“How would an Imperial know more about a Fae than a Fae?”

Muddle stiffened, his eyes narrowing as Virtue’s own blinked down at him with earnest interest.

“I–”

“You seem also to be confused by the animosity between the Icefields, or rather the Flight native to them, and your own native Flight– Though, I suppose, you might not be from the Ruins. Yes, I suppose that would be rather ignorant of me to assume simply because of your eyes…” Virtue looked past Muddle for a moment, before shaking their head, “It is very strange for a wyrm to be so ignorant about the affairs that might concern them, considering the state of this world, and yet– Are you a wyrie, perhaps? You do look small enough to be one.”

“I’m–!” Muddle bristled sitting upright as his frills flared up and shook, “I’m not a– A– Wyrie– or whatever and I’m not ignorant, I–”

Lyric yawned suddenly, “He doesn’t get any of this, I think. He told me he was originally something called a h u m a n.”

She yawned again and Muddle could hear her shift against the stone.

“Don’t make fun of me,” Muddle hissed, before he could stop himself, “Don’t act like you’re–”

“How did it come into your possession?” Virtue said and Muddle looked over at them, mouth dangling.

“Wha–?”

“Your bracelet, that is. It is,” they extended their head towards Muddle, who pulled back just as quickly, “Remarkably powerful.”

Muddle looked down at The Ring, covering it with his opposite hand,

“I…” he felt his nose wrinkle, his eyes darting in some attempt to hide The Ring’s origins and the Grotto and–

“Why are you still here?” he looked up at Virtue, making sure his contempt was as sharp and scathing as possible, “That’s my question– Since you’re making this into some kind obnoxious exchange for them.”

He pressed his palm to The Ring, heart thundering in his ears.

Virtue’s brow furrowed, their eyes clouding with a film of grey that Muddle barely registered before they looked away– head tipped towards the ceiling as though they could see through it and up into the edges of the sky. Their weight pressed against their staff and Muddle could see their throat rippling, subtly and so silently that he, for a moment, thought he’d imagined it. A grin crept across his face, his frills lifting and vibrating against each other quietly.

“Well?”

Virtue sighed and looked back at him and, for a split second, Muddle thought their eyes looked oily and–

“I told you,” Virtue said slowly, easing off of their staff and stepping towards the hearth, “I am a healer, you are still injured, and I would like to assist you– After all, I would consider it a miracle of some measure that you’ve lasted so long with your wounds.”

Muddle swallowed. Virtue continued, voice still flat and knowing,

“Or that I managed to pull you from the river at all.”

His frills slackened and then began to fold, and Muddle dug The Ring into his palm in the awkward, emptiness that had filled the shack. Virtue had saved him– and Muddle still couldn’t puzzle out why, despite the tangled, paranoid theories that kept budding in the back of his mind.

They want your Ring.

He held it tighter and–

“Alright. Speaking of the river,” Lyric raised her head enough so that Muddle could see her ears were perked, “I was thinking you might know of some other way across it… You seem to know a lot about the Icefield, I mean, so…”

Virtue’s tail flicked at the tufted tip.

“Yes, there are other, less precarious, means to cross it…”

Muddle could see Virtue’s brow crease, their right hand rising to touch the side of their face,

“But first, I…” they blinked and dipped their head ever so slightly as they looked away from Muddle, “I would like you to explain why you wish to cross it and,” they turned back towards Muddle suddenly, pointing with one of their dark claws, “Why you, Muddle, have a series of holding wards attached to you?”

They folded their claws around their staff, looking between Muddle and Lyric expectantly.

“H-holding wards–?” Muddle blurted, remembering the crushing helplessness of Casari’s spell, just as Lyric chimed,

“Muddle can go first, alright.”

He craned his neck in every direction he could, trying to see if any strange, magical markings had somehow been pressed into his skin, but could only see his spots and barely scabbed wounds.

“It’s not a physical thing,” Virtue said, quickly, “But I saw them hovering around you when you were attempting to cross the Everflow– Very stately marks and undeniably from some recognized authority of the Icefield.”

“I–” Muddle said, hunching his shoulders, wishing he didn’t feel so small and twitchy, “It’s–”

“Lopshide protector,” Lyric yawned again, in a loose voice, “He really didn’t like Muddle, I guess. That’s not too much of a surprise, though,” something mischievous darted into her tone.

Muddle felt his frills rattle but Lyric continued,

“Though, he didn’t like me that much either… Not sure why,” she flexed out her wings, clipping the mangled edges of his own so that he let out a yelp and scrambled around the lip of the hearth the opposite end. There he held his shoulders, trying to focus on keeping his frills still.

“Muddle?” said Virtue, “Do you hold any ethical oppositions to wearing another creature’s skin?”

Muddle blinked and looked down at the segmented belly of his new, wriggly body.

“Wh– What?”

Virtue had already begun to move towards the door, “Furs would, I imagine, be a better word… Would you make use of any furs I brought back?”

“I know what you meant!” he snapped, and then added a stunted, hesitant shrug, “Fine. Sure.”

“And you, Lyric?”

“Oh, alright… I mean, yes, I would love something extra warm,” Muddle saw the tip of her antlers bobbing and swaying, “It’s such a shame I didn’t get to ask Rootlickt; their furs were very nice to sleep on.”

The fire flickered as Virtue pulled the door open,

“I will return, then, and please, if you can manage it Lyric, explain to Muddle why… Ah, perhaps, the plight of the Light Flight in this world. It would be a fair exchange, considering that you know he was human and…. also, considering your behavior in the river.”

They disappeared into the snow, closing the door behind them.
Muddle looked over in time to see Lyric’s head was raised, watching the space the dragon had previously been as if they were still there. He lay down and curled his tail towards his nose, shivering as the crisp sounds of the fire settled around him until, suddenly,

“Your bracelet,” Lyric was looking down at him, “It’s not really yours, right?”

Muddle went rigid and then turned away, biting his tongue to keep himself from another revealing outburst. Silence– except for the hearth– again. And then,

“You know, I don’t even know how much you’d understand about all this Flight tension… You’re not even from around here, right? Unless, humans come from Sornieth and I’ve just never heard of them…”

“No,” he said, “I mean yes, I’m not from–” He gritted his teeth, “I don’t care– I just,” Muddle could hear the ragged desperation in his own voice, “Want to go home and not look like– Not be–” he suddenly felt as though the sides of his face had been dipped in oil– his frills were slick and heavy with something he was afraid to touch.

Lyric let out a sigh, “Your eyes are golden, which means other dragons think you were born into the Light Flight, and that means they think you’re… an enemy.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Muddle bristled, almost glad to have a new reason to be angry, “I know pretty much every per– thing here hates me.”

“Alright, yes, I know, you… Um, the Light Flight they– a lot of you, um. They’re the thinking type. Philosophical, very talky… that kind of thing,” she tapped her chin, “But their deity– Oh!”

She swung her head around so that her rectangular face cornered him with his back to the fire,

“You know what a deity is, right?”

Muddle had flinched and swore at himself under his breath, recovering with a guarded, “In the universal sense: yes.”

“So a divine type figure, alright?”

The walls of the shack shifted as a shriek of wind beat against them, and, before he could reiterate his understanding of the concept, Lyric cut him off with,

“Yours… she’s called the Lightweaver. Or, she was called that because… because she got destroyed right after she demanded your– I mean, the Light Flight expand beyond their original borders.”

“Okay,” said Muddle, “And?”

Lyric tipped her nose down, blinking slowly while her left, tufted eyebrow quirked upwards ever-so-slightly,

“You wanted to know, right? So, that’s what happened… the Lightweaver was destroyed and the Light Flight saw it as a sign they should take over everyone else’s territories. There were so many fights over land– not that I fought anyone, I probably wasn’t even alive during the worst of it.”

“That still, decidedly, seems like it has nothing to do with me,” Muddle crossed his arms, watching the door with a sudden fear sitting heavy in his stomach. Virtue’s departure had been so abrupt and awkward, Muddle couldn’t help but suspect the muscular, horned Dragon had–

Suddenly the profile of Lyric’s huge head blocked his vision, her eyes looking quizzically between him and the door.

“If you have that bracelet,” she said, “Why don’t you try to leave? I mean, Virtue’s right about you not trying to save yourself being silly: if they hadn’t found you in time…”

She looked back at the door.

“I–” said Muddle, “It’s none of your–”

He stopped himself before Lyric attempted another insulting imitation of his voice and, instead knitted his spindly fingers together, thinking.

The blemish on The Ring had spread. His attempts to change himself back only encouraged the dark tendrils’ progress from the underside of The Ring to the outer band. And yet he had made the shack–

But I’m still…

Lyric had moved away from the hearth, lumbering towards the door and opening it wide enough to thrust the tip of her muzzle into the cold. Muddle could see the book on her hip and suddenly remembered the image of the grey water and how it looked from the railings of Anagnori Bridge.

“What kind of magic is possible here?” he said, the weight in his belly shifting with a lurch, “In Sorm–”

“Sornieth,” Lyric corrected, waving her claws along to the noise of agitation he made, before she tapped at her chin again, “Huh. I think…”

She turned, her long body coiling over itself as she faced him, one of her claws drifting towards the book on her hip as though it were being guided by the same red twine she had used to tie it to herself.

“I think…” she repeated, and then shivered, quickly pulling her hand away and kneading at the flooring, “That all depends on who or what you are.”

A smile. Muddle’s frills rattled softly as he scowled back.

“That’s not an answer– Just some vague, idiotic excuse for one.”

Lyric’s smile faltered and then, as her claws curled into the floor, widened again,

“Oh, I guess. Maybe for a human, or whatever, who doesn’t know where or what he is,” she reached up suddenly and Muddle flinched before he realized she had only moved to scratch the underside of her jaw, “But it makes sense to me, alright, and it would make sense to wyrms like Rootlickt and Casari and Sta–”

She let out a small puff of air that almost sounded like a forced laugh and then gave her head a small, playful toss.

“You know your– oh, I mean, the Light Flight’s founding lands were supposedly home to the tallest trees outside of The Labyrinth and this thin, shimmering grass that grew gold all year round. And, they say, if the wind caught in it just right, it sounded like… like someone you knew was coming alongside you, humming.”

Her voice felt as though it were building towards something, almost as she were about to open up the back of her throat and sing, and Muddle leaned towards it without realising. He could see the coastline– see the oaks thinning into the rosey marbled bark of the pines and the ancient, stately cypress trees that looked both dead and alive at the same time– His palms pressed to the window of a the Thunderbird, his hot, little breath fogging up the glass as the vineyards of Napa faded into a terrible memory–

“I would have liked to see it, you know,” her voice fell, jolting Muddle back into the present.

Clutching at The Ring, he tipped up his nose with sneer,

“Then go. Obviously, you don’t have any responsibilities, friends, or family to stop you from–”

Lyric laughed again, slightering back towards the hearth and curling herself around it,

“Oh, no. You don’t understand, and I don’t get why Virtue thinks you can… Because I don’t really think you ever will.”

A yawn. Muddle grabbed his frills before they could react, muttering,

“They’re obviously just going to turn me in.”

The tuft of her tail rose and then thumped against the ground as she said,

“You said it, not me,” another thump, “Maybe you can actually do something this time and stop them if they do?”

“Do something?! I made this fu–!” Muddle’s frills flared, his body tensing before he paused, swallowed, and then grunted, “Whatever. Just don’t pretend you’re somehow useful or intelligent just because you’ve lived here longer.”

“Here?” Lyric’s voice was fading again, “No, no, I come from the Plateau– I haven’t been in the Icefields much longer than you, probably.”

A beat. Outside the shack, Muddle could hear something snuffling around in the snow.

“D-d-do creatures h-here– D-d-does anything eat the thing that I am?” he said, before he could stop himself.

But Lyric was either asleep or ignoring him, and Muddle extended his neck towards the sound, listening and desperately wishing he knew what to do.

---

@gira

virtue is such a wonderful creature... but who knows what kinds of things they might be hiding with their formal way of speaking and their heroic actions... >:}}c

and i'm so glad! lyric is such a fun character to write because she, out of the all the trio, knows exactly what she wants and how she's going to get it-- even if her methods of actions appear like naivety or haplessness to onlookers.

lyric's perception of sound is also so, so fun to write. sometimes i look up certain sounds just to think of how she'd hear them or interpret them to mean.

and hopefully the ring's magic can hold up against muddle's frequent, unsuccessful attempts to turn himself back into a human... and his knack for building cozy forest shelters.

To B______

It has come to my attention your travels from the Shifts have led you to the craigs of the Earthshaker’s domain, for which you have my utmost sympathy!

This is, of course, a sympathy which is short-lived considering your so-called “studies” conducted within the tombs and caverns have prompted you to release a series of abruptly written amendments to texts of historical mythology I personally oversaw the correct transcription of years before you rolled out of your clutch.

While I will not deny your ability to transcribe quickly and with evident mastery of writ… I find these rushed, sensationalist texts as baseless as they are mindless, though I can perhaps see why they appeal to the lowly and uneducated masses of Exalted and and Clans Dragons:

They rely on emotional drivel and leading, coarse language– dividing noble concepts into emotional nonsense that borders on blasphemous. Songs and Divinities beyond the Eleven? It is a shake of one’s claws at history– at the pious cornerstones of our shared customs!

Not that I am a religious wyrm, but, whatever your agenda B______ , I can assure you that these controversies will do little to further your career in the scholarly setting and, given the nature of my work as a child of the Lightweaver, will bar you from the academics provided within my home Flight.

I understand you are little more than a wyrie, but I will impart a grain of wisdom in this letter of a warning: shock and awe do not a scholar make, and you would be wise to return to the Shifts where you are better suited to play second-hand to whatever miserable craftsman reared you.

Sincerely,
M____

---

@smerdyakov
Can I be pinged for new chapters please? This is an amazing story, I love how I can feel the tension between flights.
Lyric is definitely my favorite character and not just because she's from Wind believe it or not

And Muddle does not deserve this. He is far too rude and ungrateful >:(. I would be overjoyed if I became a dragon of Sornieth (yes, even a Fae)

@CrAZDragon

i will definitely ping you, m8 :DD
and i'm glad you're liking the story so far... lyric is a very good favorite to have, tbh, whether or not one has a bias towards wind dragons lmao.

and pffffft. honestly, muddle doesn't know how good he's got it ;}}




@Andvari

yes, m____ and b_______ will definitely being showing up in more mysterious interludes >:}}

and i'm glad you're liking all this inter-flight tension because there's only gonna be more as we go :DD

However long she lay curled around the hearth, Lyric spent it dreaming of the strange bridge and the endless expanses of grey sky and grey water above and below it. The wind skipped across sharp peaks pulled up by the current, whistling faintly between the distant, equally grey supports.

Alright.

It sang out of her– A murky jet of color before it fizzled back into the grey of the bridge’s world. Lithe little bells tapped out a rhythm like the steady plink- plink- plink of the last grains of sand in an hourglass. Glittering beetles, massive and legless, hummed their way across the bridge.


The sounds were swollen and then silent– Lyric could hear– could see– a shape– a sigh– standing on the railings of the strange bridge. A pinpoint of color that moved in a bamboo-leaf sway against the wind and the sounds and the beetles swerving and shrieking behind it when–

The sensation of a voice rose through the image.

There is a heart of ice beneath the frozen mountain. It beats, it beats, it beats, it beats, it beats–

The drumming bulged up under her scales– Rattled her teeth– Getting faster and faster as the grey sky split into a darkness that spat sparks at its edges.

It beats, it beats. But it cannot–

”Right there!”

Muddle’s shrill voice. Lyric did not open her eyes, but let out a soft grunt, shifting against the warm stones of the hearth.

”You can’t tell m-me you d-d-didn’t h-hear that–!”

Lyric lifted her ears, listening to the sounds of the Icefield: the rustle of the conifers, the faint sighs of wind stirring the looser top layers of snow, the distant cracking and grating of the ice flows in the river…

”Huh. What am I supposed to be hearing now?” she cracked an eye, Muddle’s tiny form blurring into view as he peeked over the rim of the hearth with his hands holding his raggedy frills to his neck.

“You–!” the tips of his frills spasmed outwards and he clutched them tighter, “There’s no way you d-d-didn’t–”

Lyric closed her eye again, tilting the underside of her jaw upwards towards the Fae. An image of him, helpless and floundering against the underside of an iceflow drifted to the front of her mind but she focused on the terrible cold of the water– the way it had left her feeling stiff and raw and tired in an unrelenting way.

The Script was still against her hip.

”Did you hear something outside?” she said, trying to slip back into the sounds from before Muddle had spoken.

”Yes–! Obviously!” Muddle’s voice rose and then cracked.

She heard him hiss another unfamiliar curse under his breath and then,

”That’s what I’ve been talking about this whole–!” he paused again, dropping his voice in a poor attempt to sound larger and more confident than Lyric felt he could ever be, “It’s just– It’s st-stupid to st-stay h-here. After that guy– D-d-dragon, left…”

Lyric could picture Virtue’s face as she had plunged into the freezing waters of the Everflow– the haughty tip of their head, the blank colorless knowing in their eyes…

She eased up into a sitting position, feeling a thread of warmth rise, lazily from The Script, and looked down at Muddle.

”Alright,” Lyric said, “You think they’re going to tell Thrush where we are?”

Muddle had shuffled away but nodded before she’d even finished her question.

”Well d-d-duh.”

He cleared his throat, keeping the contempt in his voice steady,

”You can’t possibly believe that he’s doing this because he’s a healer or whatever–?” He scrunched up his tiny face, looking her over again, and then snorted, “Considering everything else you’ve said and done, though, I could see you getting suckered into something so glaringly fake–”

A gurgle slipped out of his mouth, his frills stiffening, shivering, and then folding slowly as he quickly looked away, his forehead puckered in stubborn embarrassment.

”Was that you?” said Lyric, craning her neck over him so that he met her eyes, “Or was that the noise that’s been scaring you… Because, I think, it’s been your belly this whole time, alright?”

”I’m not scared– I– I’m not hungry–!” he blurted, pulling his smaller frills forward so that they covered his eyes, and looked down at the stone.

I almost let him drown, thought Lyric, uncertain whether or not the knot in her throat was guilt or something else, I think he really should have died
in the water what with the papery way Faes are and their cold blood and…

The gnarl at the tip of Virtue’s staff would have been large enough to crush him and yet the Pearlcatcher had held the wood balanced so gently, so delicately on the very surface of Muddle’s skin… Their expression so…

Lyric watched him for another moment before she moved towards where she had laid her clothes flat on the flooring and tested them with her claws. The fabric and feathers looked rumpled and skewed but they were dry.

I must have been asleep for awhile, then… Huh.

She began to dress, trying to remember the tiny melodies she used to sing when her grandmother had been the one winding her woody-looking tail bangles around her scales– But Muddle kept interrupting what fragments of the melody she could remember:

”Regardless of whether or not I am hungry– You– I mean, it’s stupid to hang around waiting for them to sell us out–”

”Oh?” she maneuvered her necklace of birdskulls over her antlers, letting them slide down her neck against the catch of her curly mane.

”Don’t ‘Oh’ me–” Muddle snapped and Lyric heard the chitter of his frills before he shushed them, “God, you’re so obnoxiously stupid, you don’t even get how–”

Her claws cut into the flooring as she ambled back towards Muddle, The Script grating over her scales, and lifted him by the tail until he dangled at her eye-line.

”Oh?”

“H-hey– D-d-don’t–” he squeaked, struggling against the air around him.

Lyric lifted him onto her head and felt him latch onto her antlers, clinging to the prongs awkwardly.

“Put m-me d-d-dow–!”

“I think,” said Lyric moving towards the door, “It would be good to stay ahead of Virtue,” she swung her head into the cold, ignoring Muddle’s cries, and added, “Less stupid…”

The sun slunk towards the line of dark trees– the split yawning over its descent, a long, lopsided smile full of empty darkness– tinting the ice in pinks and yellows and bright, fruity oranges. Lyric looked on, forgetting about Muddle entirely and stepping further into the new, fantastic version of the Icefield…

A tremor crept from The Script and she paused just as Muddle’s little feet scraped against her antler. Tossing her head out of habit, she heard him cry out as he was flung from his precarious perch and hit the snow with a snap and a scream– skidding a small imprint in the top layer before he lay still.

”Sorry,” she moved towards him, feeling The Script push against her again, this time with a sudden, urgent sharpness. But he was alive, his sides rose and fell and, he managed,

”You say that, but every time you d-d-do,” he looked afraid to move but scrambled to his feet as her shadow, softened by the sunset, swept over him, “It’s like you’re trying to kill m-me.”

”Alright. I’m sorry,” she let out a slow exhale, hoping it sounded sincere, “I’m just not really used to, well, someone who’s so…”

”D-d-don’t.”

Muddle clutched his shoulders, already shaking from the cold and the sight of the streaks of blood from his poorly healing wounds.

”Maybe,” Lyric felt her stomach twist as she spoke, but The Script was singing through her– all airy, approving light, “Maybe this isn’t a good idea. The sun is going down and I think… I think you’ll freeze if…”

Reaching towards Muddle, Lyric paused as the tiny wyrm scrambled away, sides heaving and face creased in anger.

”Whatever,” he snapped, still shivering, “Just d-d-don’t pick m-me up again–”

She pulled her hand back towards her slowly, left eyebrow arching slightly,

”You can walk, then?”

”Obviously!” he hissed, stumbling through the snow back towards the shack, “Since you’re backing out anyways– It’s not like it m-matters.”

”Huh,” said Lyric watching him struggle all the way back to the door only to find it closed.

He looked up at it, as if he had expected it to be a somehow smaller, more manageable version of itself once he’d reach it, before he tried to pull it outwards with no success. Lyric did not move. Muddle pulled on the weave of the magicked pine branches, the section he’d grabbed slipping out of his spindly claws so that he was sent tumbling backwards into the snow with a gasp.

I wonder, Lyric’s eyes wandered back to the split and the warm line of the sun melting into the horizon, If he used to be…

She pulled her head around towards the door, one of her whiskers pulling the wood outwards so quickly it blew a newly righted Muddle back into the previous imprint he’d made in the snow. But she held it and waited, her stomach turning again.

”I promise this isn’t meant to be cruel–”

”H-hah,” Muddle managed, limping into the shack without looking back.

”But it seems, uh, strange that you wouldn’t think to magick up a shelter more…” her eyes darted to the tall hearth and the high ceilings, “Fae friendly.”

Muddle sank against the base of the hearth, “If I was still m-myself I wouldn’t– I m-mean, I’m still not used to…”

He looked down at his claws with disgust and then dropped them into his lap.

“So a human could pull that door out?”

Muddle flinched and then looked at her suddenly, “I– It’s not important.”

He shook, mouth crooking down in stubborn disappointment but Lyric wasn’t sure what it had been directed towards. But his discomfort was obvious enough and she tried,

”I could put you up by the fire, alright,” watching for his face to change, which it did, before he turned it away.

”Whatever, just d-d-don’t pick m-me up by the– agh!”

Lyric hoisted him up by the dark tip of his tail, ignoring the strange curses he spat at her, and held him above the rim of the hearth.

”Sorry, I forgot to add that I have some– Well, I guess, someone like you would call them conditions for this… I mean, that makes it sound more important than it is but…” she laughed softly, “Alright. I’ll put you up by the fire if you play, um, a game with me.”

Muddle’s thrashing had gotten weaker and tiny droplets of blood rolled off of his dangling shoulders and the tips of his ruined wings. His left leg jerked slightly as his face twisted into anger,

”Fine. Whatever. Just put m-me d-d-dow–”

Lyric obliged. Muddle’s claws scrabbling against the stone as he wriggled away from her and sank into a heap with his belly pressed to the rim.

“Are you alright?” Lyric asked.

“No,” said Muddle.

“Oh, sorry,” the fire popped while she watched Muddle’s frills fold. Then she tried, “Well, do you want to know what kind of game it is?”

“No,” said Muddle, “I d-d-don’t care.”

“It’s a question game– Like, an official one. I think you were getting huffy about sort of playing one earlier or something but,” she smiled, resting her chin on the outer lip of the hearth so that her breath ruffled the Fae’s limp frills, “This one’s official, alright?”

“Great,” said Muddle and closed his eyes.

“Hopefully, yeah,” she said, feeling the weight of The Script against her, humming and buzzing like a ball of insects crawling over each other, “And it’s easy too: Someone asks a question and then the other wyrm answers and then it gets reversed,” a beat, “Got it, Muddle?”

His right claw moved, extending his smallest opposable claw towards her weakly as if it meant something. Lyric peered down at the tiny, foreign gesture and then continued,

“Alright, I’ll go first: How much magic do you know? I mean, without your bracelet?”

Stiffening, Muddle glanced down at the jewelry and pulled it closer to him so that he was lying on top of it. Then, “No– I mean– None,” his frills went rigid, “Unless the whatever-I-ams have it naturally, which– if that’s the case– I have no idea since I haven’t tried to use it.”

He closed his eyes, nestling against the stone, before he suddenly looked up, face brightening in a hopeful revelation,

”Do they have magic?”

A blink. Lyric felt something strange in her throat.

”The Faes who are left? They, um… Don’t.”

The fire hissed and spat, the flames dipping further into the remains of the logs, and Lyric saw the light in Muddle’s face fade. Her hip felt itchy and raw. She tried,

”They used to, though. They used to be pretty magical…” she sighed and glanced at the door, watching for nothing in the sudden silence. Then, “My turn again.”

”Wait– That wasn’t my–!” Muddle jerked his head up, glowering at Lyric.

There was a flicker of resistance in her– the sudden urge to talk over him and muscle another question out of him before he touched on one of the many, many subjects she had sealed deeply in her stubbornness and song-less throat– but then,

“Alright,” she heard her voice saying, “What’s yours then?”

The Script was still and she hid her uncertainty in her smile. Muddle scowled back,

“That book,” he said, shrill even when he was trying to keep his voice low and steady, “You’re always looking at it and fidgeting with it and–” he paused and then shook his head, “It’s obviously not a regular book. It’s obviously magical. So what is it, exactly?”

Lyric turned to look back at The Script, tapping her chin slowly.

This is why you can’t ever just…

“So…” she found a rhythm in her tapping and played with it for a moment before, “Your question is: What is this?”

Her claws hovered above the symbols etched into the cover, the odd stitching that looked like it was moving when shadows passed over it– as if something alive had been sewn underneath the material.

”It’s just like you said, Muddle,” she hummed, “It’s a magical book,” she arched her head above him, her expression pleasant and proud without smugness, “Alright?”

One of Muddle’s bulging eyes twitched.

“That’s not fair!” he squeaked, leaping to his feet only to clutch at his sides, “I answered your question in a completely straight forward manner and you– You–!”

Lyric shrugged, pointing a claw at Muddle who recoiled and stumbled backwards as if he’d been threatened,

“Oh but, I let you have two questions, which is against the rules,” her smile widened, her voice peaking into her poor imitation of him, “Obviously.”

His mouth hung open but he closed it quickly, teeth gritted and frills folding in from their previous flare.

”So it’s fair, then,” said Lyric, “And…”

The spikes shot through her again, as unpleasant and familiar as they had been when she’d first seen Muddle, and she paused, studying Muddle’s indignant little face for a reason why The Script kept hurting her when Muddle was around. But there was nothing.

”Pardon my intrusion.”

Lyric did not turn at Virtue’s voice but she did reach back towards The Script, covering the reflex in an eager little spin that left her facing them. They were alone in the doorway, with a large lump of fur slung across their back.

”Oh hello, Virtue,” said Lyric and bobbing her head, her ears lifting as she listened for any sounds outside the shack.

Virtue moved further in, setting the bundle down, and unfolding it to reveal the objects inside: two pouches– one large and blobby and the other tiny and twitching with its contents–, another tiny bundle of fur, and a series of aspen branches bound together with tar-sealed twine.

”I hope these will be sufficient,” Virtue lifted the tiny bundle, slitting the twine that bound it to reveal the long, limp pelt of an ermine while gesturing to the larger pelt they had been using as a sack– one that Lyric recognized as a juvenile Featherback’s, “I, admittedly, did not have the luxury of time or a vast selection but I hope, at the very least, these are correctly sized.”

They moved towards Muddle who looked at them sourly as they held the ermine above him for comparison.

”Yes, that should be adequate,” they nodded and offered the fur to Muddle, who eyed it as if it would come alive and strangle him at any moment, “Especially considering I had no reference.”

Muddle’s nose wrinkled, but he did not move.
Virtue held out the pelt expectantly, still.

”Do you not know how to wear furs?” Virtue said, after a moment, “I can always help you if you are fearful of appearing foolish– Though, I would also add that it is both polite and customary to say ‘Thank you’ when being given a gift.”

”I– I know how to– I–!” Muddle spat, frills flushing a pinker red, “D-d-don’t talk d-d-down to m-me!”

Lyric had begun to brush Virtue’s remaining “gifts” off of the Featherback fur but looked over as the Fae stamped his right foot and snatched the fur from Virtue, dropping it beside him quickly when it proved to be heavier and more awkward to hold than he had expected. Virtue blinked, confused.

”That is going to be quite the endeavour considering how small you are, Muddle.”

If Muddle’s frills had only been tinted pink before, then now they turned a bright, dizzying shade of it as they stiffened. Muddle himself looked like he was going to explode with either anger or embarrassment.

”You… You can’t…” he stammered, which Virtue didn’t seem to notice and instead knelt next to the Fae, bringing their nose level with him.

”Is this preferable?”

”You…”

Lyric laughed, covering her mouth and snorting through her claws. Both Muddle and Virtue looked at her as they spoke in unison,

“It’s not funny!” shrieked Muddle, frills turning somehow pinker.

“I don’t understand what there is to find humorous about this…” Virtue looked slightly confused.

Muddle wrenched his head sideways, looking up at them, and spitting, “Shut up– You’re the one who–”

Lyric snorted again, draping the Featherback pelt over her, wriggling against the scratchy, tanned insides, and tossed her head in the direction of the two sacks.

”What’s in those?”

Virtue glanced down at Muddle again, their eyes looking between the discarded fur and the agitated Fae, before they said,

”They were a bit of an afterthought, but I assumed it had been awhile since either of you had eaten,” they looked suddenly proud of themself, adding, “It is very important to eat to maintain the strength of your body.”

”You’re not wrong, I guess,” said Lyric, pulling the large, lumpy pouch towards her and opening it to reveal a few snow hare haunches which she inhaled before she had a chance to convince herself she should ration them.

”Hey–!” Muddle shouted, and looked angrily at Virtue, “Weren’t those for both of us?”

Virtue blinked and then relaxed into a soft knowing smile, “Ah, yes. I must confess it will slip my mind occasionally that you were not always as you are now,” they approached Lyric, lifting the tiny sack from where she had swept it onto the floor, “You were formerly a human, yes? That is what you said.”

”Yes,” muttered Muddle, eyes narrowing as the Pearlcatcher made their way back to the hearth.

Lyric stuck her nose into her sack, licking up the last bits of her meal, and savoring the rich, metallic flavors of the meat.

I can’t really remember the last time I…

Muddle let out a cry and Lyric looked over at him just in time to see him tumble backwards into the fire– Virtue’s arm plunging in after him and retrieving the singed, screaming Fae before Lyric could quite register what had happened.

“Oh Muddle?” she said, curious and barely alarmed, “What’s wrong?”

He wrenched himself from Virtue’s claws, stumbling to the other end of the hearth as he shrieked,

“No– No– No! That is where I d-d-draw the ******* line–” he pointed, hand shaking, at the pouch as a scabby looking beetle scuttled over the opening. Muddle jumped back again, teetering on the edge of the hearth, “You’re obviously playing some kind of cruel– idiotic– st-stupid joke on m-me–! I’m not eating that– I’m not eating a–”

One of the beetles veered towards him and he let out another squeak and flung himself off of the stones and out of sight. Lyric stretched her neck as high as the ceiling would allow, watching him limp along towards the distant corner of the shack, still muttering,

”I’m not d-d-doing it– I’m not– I d-d-don’t care if I st-starve I’m not–”

She was trying very hard not to laugh and, instead, reached down and skewered one of the insects on the end of her claw, raising it to her mouth, and licking it off with a satisfied sigh.

”Huh. These are crunchier than the ones from the Plateau,” she looked at the ceiling thoughtfully, “Must be the cold. Makes their shells stiffer or ice-like or something…”

Virtue’s eyes were on her and Lyric could feel their silent disapproval as she continued to eat the meal intended for Muddle, who was huddled in the far corner, swearing and squeaking and stuttering under his breath.

“I must ask–” Virtue began but Lyric was quicker,

“It would be a shame to waste them, alright?” a beat and then, “Also. Thank you.”

She nestled against the Featherback pelt again and tried to smile as genuinely as she could.

Not that I’m not grateful, she thought, watching Virtue’s eyes softened for a second before they became steely and colorless again, And maybe I should… Alright, I should be less suspicious but…

”You never told me,” Virtue said quietly, “Why it was you wished to cross the Everflow or, rather, what your purpose for being here is… In the general sense, anyways. After all, the Wind Flight is hardly known to stray from the Mainland so dramatically or in such a solitary fashion.”

Lyric stood. Virtue wasn’t nearly as large or long as her, but their presence was formittable– their body looking more like the regulated frame of a soldier than a healer– and she felt like everything was balanced on the truth of her reply.

Muddle might even be right about them turning us in…

But she had to cross the Everflow and, apparently, had to take Muddle with her.
And Virtue, also apparently, knew where all of these things would be possible.

”Do you,” she said, a mischievous smile sliding up the sides of her square face, “What to play a kind of game?”

Virtue looked confused, hesitant, “A game?”

”It’s a talking kind of a game– A questions game,” she managed a breezy laugh, “Nothing too heavy or anything.”

Muddle muttered something from his corner and Virtue looked back at him before they sat and nodded to Lyric,

”If there is some purpose to the exercise, then I am not opposed to it,” they shifted into a position that, to Lyric, looked even more uncomfortable and lay their staff across their lap, “What I am concerned about is the dynamics of this game– is it a competition or merely a learning game? Are we playing to discover truths or conceal them?”

Competition, Lyric heard Stac’s voice in her head, You want to find out the most before either of you gives up on playing it.

”It’s to learn, uh, truths about each other,” she said but did not sit.

Virtue’s expression brightened, “Excellent, Lyric,” they pulled up their mouth in what Virtue assumed was supposed to be a reassuring smile, “Dams first, then.”

Lyric’s throat tickled. The Script sang through her– cautioncautioncaution– but when she spoke it was with her usual wyrie-like casualness,

”Alright, Virtue, where did you go when you were gone?”

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@CrAZDragon

also, apologies, but i completely forgot to copy paste the ping list section into the latest chapter template.

@Smerdyakov
That's okay, I happened to be in CC when you updated :D
I like the question-game.

“I went out to procure the furs and food I returned with,” said Virtue, “And I acquired them in a small settlement not far from this location. Then, after I felt I had satisfied my needs there, I returned to this shelter.”

They studied Lyric as she finished of the last of Muddle’s beetles, “Now, if that was the full extent of your question, then I believe it to be my turn to ask one of you.”

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