Private The Roe of Stranger Tides

Badu-dudu-dum. Front paws land and dig into the wet sand with claws, one middle arm catches up, the other carries it, and the legs land last. The tail sways. The legs send the enormous mass barreling upward and forward. Badu-dudu-dum. Unusual to hear, for the irregular amount of limbs.

He came to a stop whilst skidding into deep grooves with the full mass, to avoid ramming into Forbitter among other things, and heaved a heavy sigh of relief, wanting to wrap a whole arm around the horse's fluffy back and lean... but the horse moves, too, galloping back to the outcrop.

"I mean the little red rrocket! To brring you back, eh..."

Cat got your tongue?
A dissatisfied rumbling in response.
A gentle wrap of mind like hand under the chin came promising scritches. "Catch up with her. The poor woman is having gaps in thought."

The irregular bounding thuds of six limbs renewed, catching up with the horse with a bit of effort. Lock's forte was climbing and falling, not exactly open space traversal... but he could apply himself.
"The lady... sent to find you! Well there is coming but- not soon. She'll tell you! Nothing to fight rright now!"

There was a lone fluttering silhouette of white, so far away it should have been obscured by the grey of the cliff that grew taller. It seemed to float gently, like dandelion fluff, behind, white layer peeling back to reveal a darker undercoat of some manner.

There was no tide, just wind rushing in the ears and through the hair. A link established like awareness of someone else's proximity. The words printed into the outside between the three minds pleasantly,
What he is trying to convey, my dear syr, is that I am in no immediate danger. - Larks in the brightening morning sky, the quiet of the dawnbreak, the scent of pine and mossbeds. - The outward call also found enough lean food for me. - A crumbling tower built anew, with temporary bricks, not all the way, but steady enough. - I cannot do much, yet, but I wish to make myself useful now that I have some use of limb and weave.

Harumph. Spoilsport. Frustrated bunny stomp. - I was doing fine explaining with outer tongue. Tell her I was, syr, please.
Three people in conversation, emotions and intent translated through several sensory images and coursing through the words. One running at full tilt beside the horse. One far away on a rocky outcrop, sitting at the edge covered in a swath of dirty sailcloth much larger.

...That said... could you please take me off this cliff? My legs are still unreliable, and I don't want to sit aside with the rest of the work. - Reticence to walk. The horse looks so warm, maybe ride on its back behind the hard-shelled armored Osytha. Fix that skull with stutters. Affection, almost. And impatience. Things that are cracked must be fixed, why let it fester. - Have you been doing some sort of accounting for the lost souls? - Curiosity. Looking glass. Over the shoulder, oh, what's going on? New shapes in how recording is done. Excitement! Ideas. What if pedipald connected to a scribing surface and linked to- a gift! -mind. Full stop. Oh. - Close the distance, I can speak with outer tongue, as well. Your mind is full. Let's not overburden.

Krava'quiloor moved slowly, in measured steps, toward. The sailcloth was wrapped around her, complete with the rope Lock snagged to make himself that kilt, and the wind tore at it and the thin white hair of hers that was now perfectly even, and slightly shorter. Under the mass of fabric, there was a sort of skin suit. Looked like it, dark purple, almost black, slightly shiny, definitely insulating and covering most of the body with no particular features. Down to the shins where it ended in stirrups around bare feet, down to the hands, covering the palms; up to the jawline. Like covering all of the strips was important.
She couldn't walk naked, after all.

The white brows both peaked, large eyes widened even more. The not-elf's face froze in a dimmed expression of wonder, supplemented by the shifting posture, thin hands cominf half-furled to the flat chest, a stillness that lasted a moment.

Sunlight sparks flying off the river.
Elation. Response outside the pattern, one in a hundred thousand to minimal effect.
This was not minimal, this was a conscious effort.
'Yes.'
Sparks erupting with excitement like fireworks across the neurons, fingers of one hand wrapping around the other.
Rarity. Joy.
'I can hear you. Thank you.' Gratitude flooded warm and gentle like the summer wind, like the taste of mother's pie, like peace.

Directive received and the tide broke into several streams - one conveying thought, the other, overtly, comprehensibly, weaving the establishing link to be more stable, synapse responses parsing into the engineered web more effectively.
It was not like disparate cogs being strewn together into a mechanism, but rather, the seemingly organic process of a beehive formation, the shapes of cells optimized for function.
Walls were in the making for privacy, filters - more for the hive core than the others - to avoid conveying too much in a tangled mess.

The not-elf's cheeks smiled and her eyes smiled, pulling the corners of the mouth up with them as she momentarily lost the pattern for masked expressions and attempted to curve and squiggle the appendages she was lacking.


'I made a coldsuit,' she declared proudly.


'Cuttlefish population part supplied the primary material, but it's not cuttleskin or cuttlebone. I am the best' the term stuggled to come to something condensed, and the new filter cut the impertinent secondary, tertiary, background noise,
'...on the continent. Unitard. I like that word."

It sounded like she was wearing a retarded unicorn, and the level of comfort for the piece could be described by that - Krava found poetic, in so many thought filamens permitted through.

Connection to mending Lock's tail was gleefully confirmed. To mending Lock, a sliver proffered to the confirmation with a barely contained giddy energy. The mind was a lightning zapping here and there. The body, however...
Sluggish, mollasses, asleep limbs, pins and needles, ouch ouch. Also cold with all points of contact.


Reasoning: outer speech difficult - due to prior lung shutdown. Current way used for communication within proximity to retranslator kith - very convenient. Temporary sustenance enough to restore limb movement and internal organ function to normal for three or so days. Brain energy conservation. Will apply energy for mending and instigating regrowth.


"Oh. I'm sorry," Lock found his first clawful of purchase against the cliff, and one of his hands dove under Guffy's belly, gently lifting the dog like a toddler to spare his short legs the climb. Contrition filtered through the link, as he could not afford to slouch, so instead of making large, soulful eyes of a gargantuan kitten that had seen the bottom of the bowl, he had conveyed the sensation of seeing one. "Please, forrgiveness."

Lock climbed behind the knight, with the grace appropriate to the tailored species, one spare arm always hovering to secure if necessary. The other spare arm was cuddling Guffers close. The pup yipped, first, squirmed, trying to get out, but a deep, rumbling purr resonated from the not-beastkin.

Calmness. Big brother is caring and carrying, no movement then safe.

Guffy sneezed, and dropped his head over the edge of the large fingers, little sausage legs dangling from Lock's forearm, in an ultimate expression of 'oh well'. The pup's eyes would glance to Osytha, though, following her trek.


Agreement with Osytha's direction pinged, reinforced resources needed to be preserved followed by slight nodding as the not-beastkin moved on. Soft disagreement, hugging comfort in denial of guilt. No sad, little mistake, will fix.

Planning for comfort, maybe shelter-to-bits of ship, can be made into outer shell. Trying to plan for meals - he could always use more at this stage, but Krava'quiloor needed more complex. Consensus to terminate. Bandits. Evil wizards. Where does one find those?

'Lock, untwist the whiskers, cease your hen-full behavior.'
Brief diminishment, and then denial of impulse, with a sense of pride. 'Elder Driddozual would never approve if I did.'
Strangely enough, that made the not-elf ebb from the exchange first.

A white-haired head popped over the edge of the cliff. A slightly deeper inhale than necessary, and Krava spoke out loud.
"Hello. Can I fix your head?"
There was no 'please' nor 'now'.
That linear manner, however, was playful, if slightly jarring compared to internal speech patterns.

"Here's what the ripples read like."
The images unfurled inside the link, repetition patterns, layout of blood vessels and supposed inflammation - hypothetical, to be imprecise. She needed to touch to know for certain, even though experience allowed for a pretty confident assumption.

"It can get worse like this."
Insinuation of imagery at the inflammation settling but leaving behind a small swelling that would not go away, as well as minor fracture in the skull, and the slow and persistent displacement of blood pressure in the area that would wear away at thought tissues, leading to, likely, growing forgetfulness, if not deterioration outright, in a decade.

"Or it can all heal. But you get hit often, so the risk is there."
Krava sat with her legs folded, looking up at the figures towering over her with a little bit of smugness. Her arms in dark sleeves of strange and seamless matter crossed in front of the flat chest. As if to demonstrate that - almost - every limb of hers was activated again.

Lock has hid own resonance to maintain - condensed, linear. His and Krava's traversals of thought could be compared to a jellyfish swimming alongside a squid. But he also had something that she did not. Anxiety, fear, waryness, seemed to ease alongside the low rumbling purrs. As if he plucked the outside negatives and they got lost in the fur.
Which was, unfortunately, still quite dirty.

At least the little potato with uneven ears was now mellowed out on his arm and didn't wiggle, only occasionally lazily slapping into the fur with the tail when the bleary eyes opened and the mutt ensured his important person was still there.

Lock sat besides the two, his big figure providing somewhat of a shelter from the wind, and his resonance quietened to a hum in the background as the green-tinted eyes closed. Catnap, perhaps, only the bushy tail wrapped around the legs tapped Guffy now and then like a patient maid with a touch-too-active toddler.


All of her limbs were long, despite the silhouette being small. Elongated, would be the word. The way gaps gaped in between folded limbs and empty spaces and the torso are a cause for concern with most living things. With her? Debatable.
Age did not matter as much when time did not matter as much, and time stopped mattering the moment decay slowed beyond a threshold.

"Why not blend? Comfort contributes to efficiency."

She did not rush, did not move, only pulled the crude fabric of the sailcloth and the blanket beyond it tighter around herself. She observed, She analyzed. It was a simple array of variables, loss.

"My elder was troubled, sometimes," the not-elf mused, trying to settle warmer in her temporary garments. "He'd lived a longer span. Seen more defeats and change. He taught me how to lessen grief within the hive by allowing someone like me to be its conductor. Think on it after I'm done with the brute trauma."

Her arm in that shiny seamless sleeve extended from the covers, and touched to the middle Osytha's forehead.

All thoughtways became quiet, as if the two were never there, and nothing ever was in the space between them but the briny sea wind.

And then, there was a brief tug, not even ache, and almost a feeling of movement in place. The feeling of awareness spread through the entire body, and Osytha could perhaps imagine, quite with ease, that she was floating, aware but not alert of every nerve and blood vessel and skin, the taste of saliva in her mouth, the pressure where the brain was bruised, the joints would pop and every fiber of muscle that was sore, every hair. The sensation dimmed quickly - it was clearly not the intent to share that awareness even in part. 'Excuse me. Anyway.'

'Ooh. Very well. Ordinarily imperfect build, let's recalibrate metabolism real quick for the procedure so your fatique doesn't keep making its own buzz in the corner, dampen response here, promote some enzymes to be formed here, this is easy fix...' The soreness begun to dissipate together with the beating of the heart, like someone was pulling the pain out of the body, off the body.

A small pitiful whine of utter disgust in this world of contaminants that was quickly smothered by engaged curiosity.

'Oh, found a few blemishes inside the eyes and a slight asymmetry in the response, let's brush that up a bit.'
Osytha's vision blurred ever so faintly, and then became clearer than it had ever been, refocusing light to dark with ease.
'Let's make some more of those cones while I'm in here so they last you longer... alright. Lots of things in the brain around that bruise.'

She forgot she was not talking, and so the thin-lipped mouth hung slightly open, the green eyes looking into a spot above Osytha in utter concentration - but it was not visuals that were relied on, clearly. It was that point of contact of a thin index finger pad with Osytha's forehead.

The hurt itself felt warmer, less. Hair felt like it wasn't the wind that moved it.
'Found why the blood was not pressuring right. There.' Something like almost a wet click, but no other feeling, when something became whole again.

The index finger was no longer touching skin, and Krava'quiloor retracted it, glazed over look focusing on Osytha's face.
The awareness ceased, there was an outward tide that carried bouyant minds and didn't intrude on inner thoughts even if they were resonating outward. By choice of personal sentiment, perhaps.

The headache was most certainly gone, along with a couple tweaks so minor that Krava no longer recalled what exactly had been optimized. She did normalize the metabolism back and that's what mattered.
"Don't be silly. Those are tiny, small changes that use native materials and body's own production quotas, my morphing effort is minimal and targeted a few benign growths that didn't do anything. That's nothing. Daev might be just a touch tricky when it comes to lost mass, but I've got it, I'll just match the weave patterns of his flesh from something else." By the end of it, the not-elf ran out of breath and almost wheezed the words out, before taking a long, deep breath in.

Rubbed her face with both hands, as if massaging rather than trying to remove irritants.
Sort of like a cat grooming.
Lock hid the mlep of the tongue on nose and huffed, looking away.

"How is it feeling? Head lighter?"

The not-elf bundled back up in an attempt to retain warmth, sensing Lock shift behind her and provide his insulated side for her comfort. She let Osytha lie down on the rocks, and adjust to the sensory improvements. Caught the thoughts filtering through the mind's eye, idly, like an off-handed comment, here and there. Things conveyed, and... not conveyed. The wonder - and the apprehensive sadness.

"You don't have to be grateful," the not-elf spoke up quietly. "We are repaying the kindness shown to us. Besides, as the fleshweaver of the Creed, it is my expertise and function. My pride and joy, if you like. And I get to practice it in symbiosis not as often as I would like, so..."

She trailed off, the tides peaceful, the eyes like spheres of chrysoprase relaxed and distant. It was hard to tell where she was looking, only that her expression was a touch absent.

They didn't have to die. But there was a choice, to try and save them all without repairing the ship - or to let some die and repair the ship. The choice was not made. The storm made it then.
It seeped through the cracks unbidden, and the thoughtwave receded, tucking the sentiment away. Foolish boy.

"Grief." She repeated the word out loud.

There was no flurry of imagery, silence, absence of thoughtflow that could convey Krava's attitude or inner sense about the notion.

"There once was a city," the not-elf said. She was silent, for a while. "I remember each name, each function, each ambition. I remember the girl and her dog and the route they took to the docks each morning. I remember the cradle for the child that could only survive by my hand, his name was Herbert. It is gone now."

A slow, long sigh.
"If that does not count - I once attempted to make more of the Creed, and the one that survived out of six is... somewhere. No contact. They were made to contradict, to rebel, to seek new paths, and so did just that."
The thin legs slowly unfolded, slung over the edge of the cliff, and Krava put her head on Lock's lap, opposite of Guffy who immediately attempted to boop his wet nose into her forehead, or lick it. Caught the snow leopard's tail, and pulled it over her waist like a comforter blanket.

"Then... My elder had gone into the long dream, as we have accrued so much failure that his wounded mind begun to crack - an indescribably dangerous notion for one of us, you see. I carry his dormant imprint. A gravestone with a theoretically still living mind, that would awaken only once our goal sees enough progress... by my hands alone."
Her eyes also focused on the sky, tone dulled, but full of soft affection.
"I grieved Lock when he was just a little jelly, slashed apart by those who came to slay or take me. I put him back together, you see, so many times that my mind now has a niche for him to reside if he is ever slain. A true familiar if ever there had been."

Lock rumbled low, and let Guffy wiggle out of his hand to run back to Osytha, sensing the distress and clearly intending to help in any way he licked how.

"Grief... I grieve those from a hungrier strain, too, I suppose. They are still alive, but their minds and ambitions are spearheading a catastrophic route that will destroy them. I don't enjoy loss, but I suppose that you start to see patterns of error after the first hundred faces you remember keenly. The shared flaws in their choices, despite the differing circumstances. And the consequences of those flawed choices on others. I am trying to arrive to lack of apprehension, I guess. It is all within design. I have to accept that flawed people will make flawed choices, and that other people may die because of those, or I will go insane. I also have to not be one of either. Do you find this agreeable?"

“‘Agreeable’…?”



Osytha allows darkness to swallow the sky at last. Then it’s just the salty sea wind across her body, hard rocks jabbing along her back, and a small, very intrusive pink tongue giving her lots of kisses along her neck and jaw. Guffy is scooped up and rested on her belly before he can quite plant one of those smooches on her mouth, and placated with the eager return rub-scritch-wrestle of her hands.

“You told me you acted as a conductor,” Osytha goes on while she wrangles her happy pup. “For grief. Sae Ah just… wondered. What et’s been like for you.”




It sounds like Krava’quiloor has been doing this for a long, long time. Osytha remembers the weariness she’d seen in the aftermath of her unthinking aggression. How she’d robbed them of one more scant remaining piece of hope. She’s been a Knight of Anathaeum for all of five years, and already her own fire of resolve is a guttering, waning thing. How much more have these two had to endure? And how much lonelier have they found themselves, in trying to carry their own dying flame?

“Ivvery loss, ivvery failure… et teks summat¹ from me.” Osytha speaks evenly, softly. Relying on the soothing feel of Guffy’s pelt under her hands to keep her grounded. “Ah don’t feel those pieces comin’ back, neither. An’ yet, Ah can’t do this job if at least a part of me dursn’t care. Sae Ah keep offerin’ missen up. Tryin’ to unnerstand when et’s worth t’ risk of gettin’ burned again, an’ when to mek peace with t’ inevitable instead. Lest Ah give sae much away that Ah end up like your Elder Driddozual, or any number of other Knights whom Ah ken from my own life.”

The dense little nugget on her chest settles somewhat under her touch. Osytha knows it’s a volatile peace, though — all she need to is make eye contact and he’ll be launching up to her face, tail whipping and seeking to shower her in slobbery affections. Her own little familiar, isn’t that how Lock had put it? She risks a little motion, then; to open her eyes and angle her head toward the other pair. There’s Krava, relaxed from her prior upright pose and melting under Lock’s fluffy tail. Osytha is glad to see that, having caught a glimpse of how much fatigue still plagues the not-elf’s body. And in Lock… yes, she can see a certain Guffy-esque quality to the fellow. That fervent loyalty coupled with a boundless, somewhat unthinking, energy. And so much affection.

“Sounds as though you wasn’t allus sae fluffy, Lock,” Osytha remarks. Luxurious, snow white fur… it reminds her of someone. Of how it had felt to have his tail wrapped around her waist as they strolled on through an endless autumn day. Her hand finds the crown of Guffy’s smooth head, and eases it down with another soothing stroke. “Is that what you meant by ‘tiny like you were’? When you was this… ‘jelly’?”

It conjures to mind, well, something like a moon jellyfish. A round, transparent shape pulsing lazily along, tendrils drifting aimlessly along behind him. This little thing glued to Krava’quiloor’s side, same as Guffy joyfully dogs her own heels. Sharing a bond that is so simple and sincere a thing, yet which runs so deep as to defy easy description.

And someone had hurt him. When he was tiny, like Guffy is.

Osytha feels very, very angry about that. For a moment, before she lets the feeling go. Maybe it’s presumptuous to feel that way on their behalf. Besides, she doesn’t feel like she has it in her to keep that kind of fire stoked right now. All those emotions, likely they’re coming, and coming hard. But for now… despite everything that Krava’quiloor has set right inside her body, she’s never felt so tired in her life.

---

¹ A possibly useful lexicon of dialectal terms & spelling:

• ‘Summat’ — ‘something’.
• ‘Sae’ & ‘seea’ — both mean ‘so’, but with ‘seea’ indicating greater stress. One might use ‘sae’ when it is but a simple coordinating conjunction, e.g. “Mary went up t’ ginnel sae she might avoid t’ crowds.” Alternatively, when it is more the focus of a sentence, then it might instead appear as the latter, e.g. “Our Mary can’t bide crowds,” “Is that seea?”
• ‘Missen’ — ‘myself’. ‘Sen’ means ‘self’, so you’ll see various iterations: thissen (thy self), yersen (your self/selves), ussen (ourself/ourselves)… etc.
• ‘Allus’ — ‘always’.

Everyone grieved in their own ways, taste of the thoughts like seawater, bitter, carrying parts that could only benefit those who handled them well. Krava dangled her cold feet, drummed heels against the rock dully. Fingers sank into the warm tail that snaked around her, alongside her, trying to provide more cover. Lock himself sat with all four hands interconnected, seemingly content to meditate for the moment while the others spoke.

Pleasing. No. Survivable.
Something you could acknowledge without sinking into thoughtwaves and letting them tangle because of feelings - before you let yourself feel it through, and then move on.
There was no romance in grieving forever, no good thing. Grief wasn't the same as missing someone. Grief came from denial. Denial of things not as they should be.
It demanded. It did not build new, it did not mend broken, it did not acknowledge anything that was.
A marker- of a body, mind, ramming into the new reality before adjusting.

"It is a wave directed, released against a tall cliff. Emotions are powerful things... if the will is weakened, it can consume the proxy. But I have always been will-ful." Krava was quiet for a moment. "Humans have a set of receptors that, when they observe someone else get a splinter, try to mimic the experience in their own brain. It's something like that. I learned a lot without needing to make the same mistakes or watch someone make them."

A gentle reproach, no shame, crest of thought wrapping around almost like an embrace.
The air settled between breaths of wind, touched by the ghostly bloom of round-petalled yellow flowers that were never there.
She listened, quietly, legs slowly folding under the fabric to keep them from wind. Very cold. Restoring nerve tissue took time.
What did this good knight suffer through, so far, she wondered. How many near-deaths. How many swings of the sword that did not feel quite right, quite just, quite strong enough to accomplish things? How much meaning was wasted by being put into dead things?

"I will not tell you whether your vocation is for you," Krava'quiloor offered. "You know it's not doing you any favors. It would help if you had zeal. Truly blind, grandiose belief in the righteousness of your decision. But that is not for you. Putting so much heart to invest into the colors of the dead must be troublesome, wrenching, exhausting, leaving you alone, perhaps with an impression that no one else can understand finality of some things to the degree of the one who can also deal it."

She sighed.

Lock opened one eye, then the other, ran a tongue over the teeth, inhaling loudly through the leathery nose.
"I was not fluffy always, no. I guess my new forrm is parrrt fancy on the lady's parrt." His big head tilted to look at Guffy. "I was smarrter than yourr little minion. The lady grrew up in my carre, not the otherr way arround." A slight fluffing up of jowls, a proud puff of the chest. "Did syrrr grew up with Gufferrs, orr the other way?"

"Hmh. Some days I'm not sure it isn't the same for Lock. Darling as he is." the not-elf sighed, and there was love for simpler creatures in that sigh.

She looked at the crescent at the crest of the wave distort and disperse into foam as the shuffling tide swept across the beach below.
"Most creatures stomach grief poorly, and rip themselves apart, but you have been carrying it well. Still, you are tired, and someone needs to be here when you falter." A moments pause. Her voice was quiet, carried across the wind blunted. "I'm sorry. About Momo, and the girl. If you prefer to grieve alone, that is amenable."

Lock hummed a purr that clicked pleasantly somewhere at the top of the chest. "But we will help you, syrr."

Why have you come to this line of work? It's not what your mythos carries about valor, victories and a clear-cut story where the hero always knows a dragon is a dragon and just to be slain. Mostly not.

Query: self-destructive patterns - cause?

Reasoning: sentiment in response to rapport.
can you take us with you? being on our own is against everything.

Krava shook her head slowly. Her stick-like legs bent slowly, pulling closer to her torso. Immediately, Lock's tale swept out, cradling the entirety of the not-elf in a circle.
"Everything is contaminated," she rued. "I can take care of your attire, but we are going to need some deep cleaning once the work is done. It will be good as new, and I cannot modify dead matter, however comfortable or well-spun - but what I can do is make it clean as when it was first made. You'll get into that bath come supper. And I will borrow that cloak, thank you."

A flash of some different association from 'vessel with water' - something more like a pea pod, liquid thick like jelly yet breathable, warm, evaporating cleanly on contact with air.

"We would like to rrequest," the not-beastkin piped up, "That if bandits come to accost the locals for loot from the ship, or any such ting, we deal with them. Ourrr way."

"Want to ride Lock's arm down-cliff?" the not-elf's mouth tilted in a smirk. "He's very soft and reliable on sheer heights, and has a couple arms to spare. And surefooted! Like a mountain go-ack!" The tail thwapped her on the stomach from above, clearly knocking some wind out.

Why did I make you so strong.
So I can carry you both back to the beach? The round eyes still had that blue to them behind the green sheen, and were as innocent as a kitten's. He was forgiven immediately, and bowed his head into the hand that gave scritches around the ears and behind the jowls.
I want my clothes back. I liked that yellow.
After the pyres and cleaning.
A sigh in response.

---

The tide receded. She missed that place, where the tribe operated on a gruff, efficient logic that didn't have time for pretences or the sicknesses of the mind. Still, no names, and no location.
'I gave them some of the understanding. Long ago. But most of it, they have cultivated themselves.'

Krava stretched, almost punching Lock into the massive jaw with her bird-like fist.


Krava's large eyes squinted gently.
"A little enlightenment hurt a lot of people for good."
She moved with purpose, but Lock moved faster, grabbing her into a swiping hold. Krava settled her spine along the crook of the elbow, content, and still elevated the index finger pointedly, refusing to clarify whether that was to emphasize some thought that was shared more privately, or pointing the direction.

Guffy was then delivered with the other massive arm into her lap, relaxing from a single touch despite being a squirmy sausage in anyone's hands and rightly so, being a pup of great growing power. Though perhaps not when it came to making his brain less pearl-like.

The not-beastfolk grinned at Osytha. Jowls lifted, lips parted showing rows of teeth. He was happy. So it took a couple moments before Lock realized it must be the face of a demon snarling, to most observers.
"Oh, sorry. Different. Err."
He inhaled, and let rumble a short purr. There. All better.
"See you at the bottom, Oseetha syrr."

And then he demonstrated what the tail was for, balancing precise, wide sideways jumps with a swoosh and a flick well-timed, and then using his upper arms to guard and grab, same as his legs, fluff between toes gathering stone dust, muscles smoothing and softening the impact of the landing, even with added weight of one not-elf and one small lopside-eared radish.

One.

Two.

Rock crumbled, claws dug in harder, sliding out of the sheaths, pink meat of the claw visible through texture.
Krava didn't even open her eyes from what seemed like a beginning of a nap. Perhaps her vestibular was as tightly under control as the functionality of her limbs when it came to energy preservation. Perhaps snuggling into soft things was her favorite past time.

Three.

Once he landed, on all four limbs, on the sand below, Lock looked up, ready to go vertical some bounds and help Osytha keep the footing on the descent. He was getting hungry again, whiskers scrunching for a moment.

"Syrr doing well therr?" he called out, over the wind whispering and the waves shuffling forth and ebbing once again.