[P] tell you my sins and you can sharpen your knife
[P. Lokr]
#1
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Heybby 83 NIGHT TIIEEEM yiss+000


The long, drawn, soft scraping sound was punctuated only slightly by the occasional, soft splash of a staggered step into a puddle. The season was cooling, the day's sun burning off cloud layers, until night came and cast drizzle down to the earth in tepid hours, setting a chill deep in the bones of the unprepared. The light rain had gone on for a good hour, perhaps an hour and a half, before the basilisk relinquished her post.

It had not occurred, that perhaps, she could have claimed some small, abandoned hut for her own; for not yet had she thought herself proven, and much like in her childhood, the nights were spent outside, curled up and cramped amidst roots and rocks in the dark. There was no hurry in her gait, no purpose other than shelter as she moved through the thickly-cloaked night, the tine of an elk's antler clasped in her left hand, the anchor dragging through the loam behind her as the slouched beast crept along. The bone was a prize, something she found while adventuring out in the mountains, and while others saw nothing, she saw worth. Fingers of her right hand were wound loosely about the hilt of a carving knife.

Between the paranoia and the cold (for her old cloak was abandoned to cover her horse), she was kept awake. Past the ruins the basilisk dragged, towards the stables, and she was hesitant, before sidling her way in through a cracked door. The dry was welcome, and the weary heap slid over to a wall, before slumping down to the floor.

What pelt she possessed clung to meager form, all ribs, all lean sinew, diminishing any perceived size that the hybrid could have possibly possessed. Wild, tangled mane had been tied and wrapped tight, an afterthought when the rain had started, and what was left loose hung in slightly dripping ringlets. Miasma sights were turned towards muddied feet, before shifting up, and were it not for the exhaustion, the beast would have been startled to meet the gaze of a stag in one of the stalls, sights widening in slight before blinking, once, twice, three times, to ensure it was not mere trickery.

For a moment, Peregrine was blearily enraptured by the beast, elegant as it was, before she dropped her gaze again, this time to the antler and her whittling knife, and she dragged the shed closer, before putting the blade to bone, carefully etching out the deeper lines and shapes, recollecting teachings, old heritage near lost by the Canadian-bred parts of her bloodline. The figures were, as always, intricately crafted into her work, and slowly it took form as a three headed beast with a large eye in the center of his chest. Brow was knit in concentration as she carved designs outwards in silent pondering.


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