Caravagio

Caravagio

just, Gio
Weaver
The crate creaked open at the hinges. Made furlined ears twitch. Narrow slit eyes dilated as they zeroed onto the contents revealed. Followed the gleam of light that played across sinewy lines and bone curves made of bright metals.

So fine they seemed to sing against the stir of air.

"There they are," Caravagio purred. Tail tip twitching. Whiskers flaring.

Crate came shut with a finger biting clunk. "They'll be requirin a real smooth ride, Gio,"

Eyes flicked up to the blue skinned devil. "What," Gio said, half hurt as he looked down at the shorter man. "You don't think I'll be smooth about it?"

Thick fingers fixed the latches. "I don' think much of anythin," stroked his trimmed white beard with one hand. Pulled a white roll of smoking tobacco from his woolen half coat's pocket. Set a shroudring to it, clicked the runed springmetal together in click clicks that sparked the lines of the engravings to life. Puff puffed. Drew in a crackling breath. Spilled out silver smoke. "Save I wan' this damned crate off my wagon so I can go on forgettin I ever saw it," shoved it towards the felonin.

Gio braced the crate. Set it unto the rear seat of his of his shroudspeeder. Snagged up the lines, all tiptoe and stretch. Tied it down with the rock and sway of the twin luft balloon personal shroudcraft. "What crate?"

The blue devil with the white beard smiled big and toothy with his cig bobbing on his lip. "That monowheel still treatin you righ?"

Last hook worked into its ring. Clawed fingers checked the tension. "Right as it can,"

Blue latched up the wagon bed's gate. "Piece of junk will get you killed,"

A smile cut across Gio's furry lips. Eyes agleam as he straddled the speeder. Felt the frame shift with his weight as the luftballoons resisted the sink of added weight. "Nah, Penelope's always looked after me," he said, pat pat a paw on the smooth wooden hull of Penelope's chasis.

Blue chuffed. "So long as the job gets done," paced across the horseless wagon bead, planted his butt unto the driver's seat.

A crow cawed in the tree overhead. Another replied in the near distance. The black bird clocked its head. Keen eye scanning the transaction below. Took flight with a flap of its midnight wings.

In a room in an inn named the Long Dog, in the marketsquare of a town called Undergrove, a seer in a room full of burning herbs, mint, rosemary, and vetiver, opened his eyes. Gasped.

"Well?" a sharp eyed man grumbled.

"He has recieved the crate,"

A grin through a beard wiry with roadgrime. "Well, we best go and find him,"
 
"'Neath the old bare willow tree, up on the hill, up on the hill, she waited for her lad-in-green, her lad-in-green..."

A woman's soprano voice cut sweetly though the cool morning air, shifting between hummed notes, sung words and the hollow vibrato tones of a wooden flute. Her only audience was the surrounding forest, but that didn't seem to bother her as she carried on with the cheerful melody.

"She brought him a blushing rose, up on the hill, up on the hill. Lavender lovely in her hair. Would there he be?"

A final bright note on the flute called the song to its end. Brighid sighed with quiet contentment and stretched herself out to greet the warm sunshine. In the distance, she spotteed thin trails of chimney-smoke rising into the autumn air. The town of Undergrove was not far now, though she was almost disappointed to see it.

She found she much preferred the quiet solitude of the wilderness to the air of constant urgency that hovered over towns; but there were some necessities and comforts that came with civilization. At this moment the two of most interest to her were a warm meal and a bath.

She put the flute away and took a moment to look through her coinpurse, frowning at the dwindling supply of coinage to her name. She'd need to find work soon -- or else miraculously improve her skills at surviving in the wilderness. As much as Brighid thought herself an acolyte of the natural world, she was still a city girl in many ways.

The green-and-gold of the woodlands became sparser as she approached the town, thinning to make way for farmland before those too were overtaken by the sprawl of wooden buildings. The town had an old style to it that reminded her of the rural villages she'd passed through, though it was certainly busier.

The Long Dog. Brighid chuckled inwardly at the name posted on a sign outside one of the wide, squat buildings surrounding the market square before she entered.

The usual smell of a tavern hit her first as she swung open the double doors: stale beer and unwashed bodies clung to the floorboards, which she found sticky in places when she walked over to the bar. There was something else, too; a faint herbal smoke that followed a man who came down a set of stairs to the left of the bar.

Mint, rosemary and... was that vetiver? A strange blend. Certainly he was not cooking with the latter.

She couldn't help but cast a curious glance at the man.

@Caravagio
 
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And the man glanced back at her. Eyes narrowed and suspicious with their ice cold blue. Black hair stringy down the sides of his face. Skin pale. Face hairless, and much of the dark strands atop his crown thinned to the point of shine.

Something like ritualistic scarring was etched across the planes of his face. The silver there upon roads of ashen streaks.

An old tradition. All worm tea and bog root. The marks of a moon seer. A feather eye sigil carved there just beneath the round of each eye socket.

He turned away. Pulled the hood of his grey robes up to cover himself from the young woman's prying eyes. Kept moving across the inn floor. "He was not far," the seer whispered to his bearded counterpart. "Wouldn't be long in getting here," he reasoned.

The stout brawny man grunt. "No, not on that ride of his," looked about. Caught a glimpse of the young lady eying them. Grinned, all pleased with himself, and tilt his chin up at her, expectant.

"It might behoove us then," the seer hissed under his breath. "To spring the trap here, don't you think, Randal?"

Randal made a sound in his throat. Slowed to a stop, and looked about the inn's bar hall. "Suppose there is sense in that," laughed. "Not like old Benni is going to be making the meetup now, is it?"

A shudder went through the tall thin man in the grey hood. "No, certainly is not," he said, eyes peeking out from under his hood to spy the tables. "I will go find us a seat then, and,"

"I'll go fetch me some drink,"

"Oh, do make it something... easy on the pallet, will you?"

"Fret not, dear Cidiro," Randal said, plodding over to the bar.

Cidiro sighed, and shook his head. Moved off to a spot well suited for keeping an eye on the ins and outs of the hall.

Randal leaned an elbow onto the bar. Cloak mud trailed. Chainmail bristling over well worn gambeson. He thumped a fist onto the bar. "Barkeep!" he called. Never no mind for what the barkeep was doing ,or who they were tending to. "Two meads if you'd be so kind," turned his eye on the mousy little thing just some ways. Cocked a brow and let his smile spread easy.
 
Brighid quickly averted her eyes from the two haggard men and tried not to listen to whatever they were plotting. Although she had no recollection of what the balding man's strange tattoos might mean, something about the suspicious glares and whispers made her uneasy enough to backpedal a couple steps towards the other end of the bar.

"Excuse me-"

An old woman shuffled out from the kitchen to the bar. Her hair looked like a sun-bleached broom, her skin like tanned leather, and her face had a wrinkle for every year of her obviously long life. Her deep mahogany eyes held the glimmer of some secret elixir of happiness that would never be shared, teasing the entirety of creation as she gave Brighid a gap-toothed grin.

"Hullo, love. What kin I get ye?"

Brighid paused momentarily in a silent argument with herself about whether or not she should just mind her own business. She really ought to. Surely whatever those two were whispering about had nothing to do with this establishment or this little old woman.

"Just so you're aware, I believe those... gentlemen over there may be planning some kind of trouble," she blurted in a low voice, ever-so-slightly inclining her head towards the two muttering amongst themselves.

The tavern proprietor chuckled at her warning, revealing more gaps where teeth once were.

"They's harmless. Rats in-da cella make more work for me n'em. Anyways, at's what Brute Force is fer." She beckoned with one bony finger to a wall rack with a club set on it. The words Broot Forse had been crudely inscribed on it.

While Brighid sincerely doubted that the old woman could even pick up that hunk of wood, she thought better than to comment on it. She just nodded with a grin.

"Of course. Anyway, I would like-"

Caravagio said:
"Barkeep!" he called. Never no mind for what the barkeep was doing ,or who they were tending to. "Two meads if you'd be so kind,"
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The old woman swiveled on one foot to face her other customer. Her voice resounded with startling force considering her slight frame:

"Wait yer damn turn, boy!

The barkeep cracked a mischievous grin at the startled girl and whispered, "These boys take a lil' tough love. Keeps 'em right in da head."

"It's fine, I can wait," Brighid said with a reassuring smile. The old woman just nodded at her and, with the ease of years of practice, popped two mugs onto the counter, fetched a bottle of golden liquid from its place, and poured it out equally between them without spilling a drop.

"Two meads!"

Brighid started chuckling to herself, mostly in embarassment for having said anything, but her smile faded when she caught the bearded man's stare out of the corner of her eye. She cleared her throat and busied herself with scratching at a stubborn bit of dirt that had adhered to her sleeve.

@Caravagio
 
The bearded Randal blinked. All the gruff and tough seemingly slapped out of him by the old woman's shout. "Ghanga's Gash," he said beneath his breath. Head set to shake as he went on muttering. "Boy?" he ran his calloused fingers through his beard. "Haven't been called boy in years,"

Cast a glance back to the old barkeep who whipped up the mugs and poured down the drinks.

Blinked down at the meads and slapped down the requisite coppers. Grumbled. Glanced over at the pretty woman in her pretty blue cloak. Eyed the hang of her pack. Leaned just a bit closer as his hands pawed about the mugs. "Awfully-"

Come the scrabble and scratch of little claws racing across the wooden floors, all skitter skatter and rasp along with the little growls and throaty barks of a floppy eared guardian. Greys overtaking the golden browns about their muzzle. Eyes a milky and blind blue and white. Long body seeming to just keep together as comically short legs pumped their frantic work.

"What in the fu-"

It yap yap yapped at the bearded man. Spun in a circle. Yapped some more.

A heavy hand slapped down on Randal's shoulder. He blinked again. Looked over to find a grinning Orkin. Betusked, and the complexion of old man's beard. Hair a lustrous gold, gave him the impression of some forest spirit turned to flesh. His eyes, the same mahogany as the old barkeep. Looked just about kin.

"Ol' Chance doesn't seem to like you staying at the bar none," he said with an easy smile that felt as much a warning as there would be beneath the club on the wall rack and those words of wisdom neath them.

Broot Forse.

Chance, the ancient wiener dog, gave one last yap with a nod and a shake of their head. The last word.

Randal huffed. Shook the big meaty claw of a hand off his shoulder and grumbled as he went off.

The Orkin nod to the young woman with a kindly smile. "Sorry about that there, Miss," went behind the bar, and laid the drink tray down. "Can we get you anything?" he asked as started serving up the order on his ticket. Mugs laid down. Bottles popped and poured.

Chance bumped about at Brighid's feet. Tail wagging, tongue lolling happily. Sniffing about for snacks in her pack.
 
"Thanks," Brighid said to the orkin once the bearded man had departed, though she was sure gratitude was expressed more by her relieved smile than anything.

"One room for the night, with a tub if you've got it; and then something hot to eat would be wonderful. Soup, stew - whatever you have on hand is fine, I'm sure." She fished out a somewhat generous amount of coins from the coinpurse in her belt and laid them out on the bar, chuckling to herself as she realized the inspiration for the inn's name was not so random as she'd first thought.

"Chance, huh?" She reached down slowly with one hand to let the blind dog get her scent before gently scratching behind the dog's floppy ears. "You've seen a few seasons haven't you, friend?"

Brighid uncinched her pack and carefully reached past a cloth-wrapped flute to get to her food bag, which held some bits of travellers' biscuits, jerky, dried fruit and a chunk of cheese. She wasn't sure why, but she had the feeling Chance might enjoy the soft cheese. She tore off a bite-sized morsel from the block and offered it to the wizened canine.

The old woman simply scanned the room with a contented grin before ducking back into the kitchen.

@Caravagio
 
Old Chance sniffed at the cheese. Nose boop booping up and down with each breathy snoof that set his pear shaped head to bob, and his floppy ears to dangle. Took a bite out of the offering. Then another that near horked it down.

"Seems the old dog's taken a liking to you," the orkin said, all easy nod as he finished pouring the drinks. "Doesn't just take the snacks out of any old pack, mind you," gave a wink.

Little snuffled sounds as Chance made short work of the cheese.

"Can put you up for the night, no problem," he said as he scooped up the coins, counted them quick, and gave her back the extra. "Room 12 has a nice tall bath tub, runes on its shroud ring just got touched up, so it keeps the water nice and hot," he assured. picked up the tray of ciders, and rounded the corner of the bar. "That a flute?" he asked, no shame in being a nosy inkeeper. "You play?" he took his steps long and lingered as he made back out to the floor.

Chance snapped up the last of the cheese. Licked his nose. Shook his head. And pointed his blind eyes toward the door. Barked.

A newcomer entered the Long Dog. All golden eyed, and bag strapped. Walked over to the bar, all cool and quiet. Had a seat, down a couple stools from the young woman and the dog.

Chance yap yapped. Did a happy circle and wagged his tail as he trot toward the newcomer.

Caravagio looked down at the old wiener. Smiled. "Your nose never fails, does it, Chance?" he said softly. Hand already digging through his pocket.

Pulled out a tiny blue egg. Showed it to the pup, betwixt forefinger and thumb. Knock kocked it on the counter, and pulled the top off careful like. Not to spill the yolk.

"Here you go, old timer," he said easy, and set the cracked treat down on the floor.
 
Caravagio said:
"Seems the old dog's taken a liking to you," the orkin said, all easy nod as he finished pouring the drinks. "Doesn't just take the snacks out of any old pack, mind you," gave a wink.
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Brighid wasn't so sure she believed that, but she gave him an appreciative grin at the complement anyways.

Caravagio said:
"Can put you up for the night, no problem," he said as he scooped up the coins, counted them quick, and gave her back the extra. "Room 12 has a nice tall bath tub, runes on its shroud ring just got touched up, so it keeps the water nice and hot," he assured.
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"Sounds perfect." Her smile melted slightly at his mention of the flute. She felt a little silly thinking about how lovely the instrument sounded, how many wonderful tunes she could create with it, and yet how she could never find the courage to play in front of an audience that wasn't waving summer grass or a lonesome brook.

"A little," she admitted a tad sheepishly. "It helps the miles go by more pleasantly, you know?"

As the little dog turned towards the door, she looked up, and then promptly tried not to stare. The sleek feline figure moved like a ripple on water; silently, smoothly, causing the barest stir of the air even as he sat down on the stool without so much as a squeaking of leather or rustle of clothing. Considering all of the daggers and things he had strapped all over him, she could only wonder how he didn't sound like a blacksmith's cart rattling down a road.

Brighid had heard about the myriad races that had the features both of humanoid and beast, but she'd never seen one in person. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she had expected that when she did, she would find a resemblance to something she was familiar with. Yet the only memory she could compare the sandy, spotted coat to were pictures from an exotic animal book she'd had as a young girl.

She forced herself to turn her attention away, privately noting that it was just as rude for her to gawk as it had been for the bearded man. Instead she busied herself looking around in her pack for the small notebook she liked to write in.

@Caravagio
 
"I don't know why you always have to go and try to get your nose wet in every pretty little thing that comes across our path, Randal," Cidiro said, all dark glower beneath the dark shadow of his grey hood. "It is neither inconspicuous, nor professional," each word the deft swipe of a ritual dagger.

Randal simply huffed. "Some of us still remember what its like to bleed red blood, seer," gruff condemnation clear in his voice.
Cidiro scoffed. "Were that all life were so simple, then we might have never happened upon our current ambitions,"

Randal's brow's pinched. Nose scrunched shook his head like a bull. "Not even done with your mead, and there you go talking like that again," drank form his cup.

The happy yap yap of Chance pulled Cidiro's eyes up to the bar. "Randal!" he hissed. "Randal, look!"

Randal's nose wrinkled the more. Heavy hand waving away Seer's call for attention.

"You bearded idiot," Cidiro said, all hunched and hushed. "It's Gio,"

Gio laid his pack down easy. Nary a whisper from the leather as it slipped off his shoulder, and rested there at his feet. Eyes looked to the young woman not too far along the bar. Sifting through her pack.

"Looking for something worth finding?" he asked, calm as an autumn breeze.

"Well, look what the dog dragged in,"

The Felonin's eyes narrowed with amusement. Head tracking the movement of the big man with the tusks, and the golden main. "Thrast," a nod. "I'll thank you for not subjecting me to the more tired and worn turn of that tit,"

Thrast, the barkeep's maybe kin, grinned wide. Big brown eyes going happy crescent. "You know how I pride myself in a decent tat,"

Was already pouring up a drink.

"Still playing that little accordion of yours?"

"Show some respect, Thrast," he teased with a tilt of the head, and a closing of eyes. "She's a concertina," a nod. "And yes, on occasion,"

Thrast smirked. "Well, if we're lucky, we might have ourselves a little concert tonight," slid the mug on over to the felonin.

Padded end of furry digits caught the oaken thing like it had always belonged in his clutches. Not a single drop spilled. Shrugged. "We'll see where the night takes us,"
 
Caravagio said:
"Looking for something worth finding?" he asked, calm as an autumn breeze.
Click to expand...

She smiled softly as she looked over the journal's smooth leather cover, nearly pristine but for a tiny scratch where something in her backpack had scraped across it.

"I hope it will be, one day," she replied wistfully before flipping through its pages.

Though a few of the crisp pages had been penned with various scribbles -- lines of poetry, observations of her journeys thus far, bars of musical notes, amateur drawings of flowers -- most of the book's crisp pages were still blank. The faintly fibrous paper only seemed to draw her into its mystery. Even she could not say whether she would ever release its potential.

In one hand she held one of the newest (at least according to the region's eager traders) small technological marvels to hail from the great capitals of invention: the inkless quill. Through some clever application of runework and alchemy that Brighid could never hope to understand, the bizarre cylinder required no messy bottles of ink, except for the occasional re-loading. A worthwhile investment, by her reckoning.

The inkless quill hovered over the paper, her hand pausing as she tried to figure out how to translate experience into inspiration, and that into something meaningful.

"Tit-for-tat," she commented under her breath, overhearing bits of the conversation between barkeep and customer despite her best attempts to concentrate on her own thoughts. She hummed to herself and, after a brief pause, wrote those words on the paper before penning five parallel lines across part of the page with three notes between them.

She didn't look up at the mention of a concertina, although she was secretly intrigued. She didn't intend to spend all day in the inn, but she would make an effort to be around in the evening in hopes of catching a little performance too.

@Caravagio
 
A cocked brow at the scribble and scratch of something that looked... bright. His eyes wide as they followed the twift and twirl of the object she manipulated so deftly. Saw the little markations of song, and the sprawl of vines bouncing there beneath the spill of its trail.

"What is that?" he asked quietly. "A pen?" stretched his neck up to spy the fresh scrawl.

Had she written what they said?

Smirked.

"Are you eaves dropping?" he sounded amused.


"Well," Cidiro said, thin breath in his throat.

"Well?" Randal said with his brow raised. Lips lopsided.

"I... You make sure they stay there,"

"What? What, how? They are just sitting there,"

"Shh, you god damned idiot,"

"Hey, what? I don't deserve that,"

Cidiro huffed, thumb and pointer planted at the temples. "You are right, I'm sorry,"

"Thank you," Randal said, well to do with a nod.

"Just keep watch Randal," he said softer.

Randal nod.

Cidiro bowed his head and closed his eyes.
 
Brighid looked up at the felonin, then at the metallic writing utensil in her hand.

"It's an Inkless Quillpen, yes. I bought it from a travelling merchant in Brighthearth. Useful little thing."

She didn't make any attempt to close the journal or otherwise obstruct what she'd jotted down. In fact, she kept working with a chuckle at his light-hearted inquiry.

"I wouldn't say eavesdropping... it's more like collecting. Like a souvenir from an exotic shop, or-" She paused in thought for a moment before flipping to a later page. She gingerly pulled out a tiny pressed violet and held it in her palm. "Or a flower you just happen across on the side of the road."

Her somewhat affluent upbringing caught up with her as she replaced the dried flower, scolding her for her lack of manners like a humorless schoolmarm.

"I'm Brighid," she said with a smile as much from cordiality as from the private pleasure of recalling how livid it had made father whenever she omitted the family name. It almost made her wish he was here just so she could see the displeased expression on his face.

Just then, the old innkeeper emerged from the kitchen and set a spoon and bowl of stew in front of Brighid.

"Give 'er a minute, 'less ye like'n yer lips burned off." She smiled, drawing the curtains of wrinkles around her eyes and mouth up. Brighid thanked her before the surprisingly spritely old-timer disappeared back into the kitchen.

Ah well. Gave her time to finish her thoughts, she supposed, even if her stomach was going to grumble the whole time.

@Caravagio
 
"...Useful little thing."
His brow raised, all the more curious. "Certainly so," not that he had much use for such a gadget. But oh, how it shined, and how she moved it. Made it seem almost alive as she kept on going.

"...It's more like collecting..."

Gio gave a singular nod, eyes bright as they watched her. "A collector of words," he said amidst the pause, all smile across his lips. Thought the moment passed, until she revealed one more thing she had collected. "And flowers," he corrected himself. Took a small drink from his mug as she went on.

Thought it rare, to find one so open. Book, literally bared for all to read.

I'm Brighid.

His eyes met hers. Saw the devilish twist to the curl of her lips.

"Caravagio," he said between them. Bowed his head, ever just. Met her eyes with an impishness of his own. "But you can call me Gio, if you'd like,"

Burst through the kitchen swinging doors, and laden with a healthy heaping of soup, Old Gran laid the helping down. Gio just gave a quick nod of recognition, before the old timer was off.

Watched the steam curl and trail up.

At a tall window through which the pale autumn light glowed, a shadow feathered friend landed with a hop and a flutter. Clack and scratch of trident formed clutches hobbling over the old wooden sill. Spade beak, tap, tap, tapped against the hazy old glass.

Caused Gio's ears to twitch toward the sound. Eyes darted up, and his whole head locked on.

Just a crow. he thought.

But to the shroud sensitive, the whine and twine of shroud being woven, thrummed ever so faintly. The scent of vetiver tickled the nose.

A growl from chance. Who stopped their vigorous licking and scooping out of the eggshell and what was left of its yolk. Nose pointed back to the crowd. A bark. A yap.

"Ho, there, Chance," Thrast called back from the bar, hands busy tending to the old mugs with a roughspun cloth. "What's gotten into ya?"

The old dog spun about. Pointed its nose again. All of its long little body, strained to the effort.

A tap tap tap from another window. Doubled the soft, hardly audible sound over the clamor of the inn.
 
"Nice to meet you, Gio," Brighid said with a nod and went back to her writing. She hummed again, but something different from the notes on the page; something she was mostly unaware of as her hands expanded on the triplet she'd started with. Again and again she hummed the growing tune, changing timing and phrasing with each pass.

She closed her eyes to shut out the distractions of the world around, and very quickly she saw a rapid series of images in the depths of her mind: buildings and scenery blurring by impossibly fast; the reflection of a black marble of an eye in a dirty pane of glass stretching enormous around her; the sensations of lifting and soaring; a windowsill; Something shiny over there... so very shiny...

I wants it. No, can't. Master calls. Must go. Let me in!

The thoughts rambled through her consciousness like a misplaced poem, written to the rhythm of scratch, scratch, tap - scratch, scratch, tap.

Dizzy, she opened her eyes with a pensive frown and steadied herself against the bar. Her imagination was running away again, apparently, and not to any of the places she hoped it would go.

Maybe it was the dog's sudden excitement, but she felt a vaguely ominous prickle on the back of her neck that made her want her shortsword a little closer. She turned her pack so that it was within easy reach, if only to make herself feel better about whatever dread bird she imagined was about to come bursting through the windows.

With a dismissive tsk, she picked up a spoonful of stew and blew on it before taking a bite. For the sake of politeness, she ignored the desire to make a face. It was actually delicious, if not for the off-putting odor of vetiver.

@Caravagio
 
Clack and clatter went the beaks. Each peck and scratch that much closer to bring the glass to shatter.

Gio's eyes went wide. His hairs on end. Tail straight as a bolt fingers already grabbing the straps to his carrier bag.

"What in the blue moons," Thrast asked as his eyes went to the shadowy fan and flutter of feathers darkening the hoary light that poured through.

A crack, loud across one pane as the hairline break split wide across the plate. Foggy old glass turned to spiderweb fractures. Sprayed forth with a surge of feathered bodies and beating wings all squawk and warble and screech.

Chance yap yapped until a crow buzzed right by him, all caw and fury.

It was a right murder. Tens of little black bodies swirled and flocked and caused all manner of commotion. Thrast, half covered his head, half beat at the creatures.

"Ye damn buzzards!" he called out. "What's gotten into ya?" he swiped and bat away with a large open palm.

A pair of cruciform feet landed on the counter, there before the book and the shiny pen. Head tilt and turn as a large glassy eye looked to the inkless wonder. Beak snatched it up with a click.

Gio, in all of the commotion, had hidden beneath the bar, and behind a stool. One of his many talents being able to make just about any bit or thing look and act like a fortress. His eyes darting this way and that, as the other guests of the Long Dog made for the exit, took cover, or generally screamed their heads off.

The birds, all terror and feather, circled and searched. Snatching at any shiny bit and bob their greedy little hearts caught glimmering.

The thump of purposeful footfalls caught his ear, the conical shaped sensors already found them. Eyes followed. "Randal," the felonin said on the sly.
 
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