Starglow Basin desorden

implausibly enough, @Fiamma is still here. 

soto returns to the dugout in stiff pacings, a lean desert rat between his jaws. 

it was a small tribute, but he slides it to the woman — golden eyes reading every part of her body for reaction.

against every thought, every instinct, she had remained with the man and his ragged, bloody corpse of a woman.

they had relocated to the south, and against all odds, said woman was recovering. fiamma would never not be amazed by the turnaround. truly, it was a gift from god—and indeed, it was this turn of fortune that convinced her to remain with this motley crew.

today, one of said crew graced her presence with a small token of appreciation. she eyed the snack with a brief, skeptical eye before taking it—a wicked beast snatching prey from the hands of those that fed her. 

smack, smack, crunch, and the thing was devoured.

grazie mille, fiamma told soto, with a graceful incline of her muzzle. she did not miss the state of him, the nervous, restless energy that seemed to permeate every facet of his being. whatever had torn his woman to shreds was still out there—and still looking for blood.

come ti chiami? she asked. mi chiamo fiamma. fiamma di rossi, di. . .

she trailed off then, unsure how much to reveal. his accent was strange enough that she did not worry about his knowing her father's people. but a shared tongue was as much a liability as it was a connection, even beyond any misunderstandings. she did not want to risk—

but then, she'd revealed di rossi—

fiamma, the silver woman decided with frank finality, icy eyes fixed upon her new companion.

between fiamma and the witch, sangre keeps kicking. tough old broad. nino would be proud -- a thought that causes the half-smile to wither on soto's face.

fiamma takes soto's offering, skeptical at first. but in a matter of seconds, it's gone.

best soto can do in his present state.

she speaks a string of words. like looking at your reflection on a fogged surface: the shape is familiar, but the features so indistinct you can't be sure.

but one word sticks out, if only because she repeats it. several times.

soto connects the dots. soto. he points to the huddled shape of red: sangre. and then, to the witch and the boy with a shrug. sin nombre.

two names she knew; one she did not. she looked upon the poor young lad, his eyes such a unique pairing of night and day—indigo and fire. there was something amiss with one of his legs, too, and she nodded toward the awkward limb with her gaze toward soto.

does he need care? fiamma asked. he was a boy of this year, no more than a few moons old. she didn't know how he'd gotten his injury, but she knew he was far too young to have earned it in battle on his own choice.

she sat back on her haunches, swiping her tongue along her teeth to clear away any blood and gristle from the rat. it wasn't good eating here; she didn't expect it to be. it might be some time before her next substantial meal.

beyond sangre. . .why did she stay?

soto turns, a long look given to the boy.

does he need care? it is not a question soto entertains, even if he doesn't understand the words. he knows the nuance by the concern on her features.

he is no monster - the boy has been fed, watered, and he's even allowed qiao her prodding of the child. unless fiamma plans to be mother to him, there is little else for basic need.

no. soto grunts, shifting away. he rises with a shake of his ruff, steps minced. venga conmigo.

her question was shut down quickly, brusquely. she cast a pitying look upon the boy before rising at soto's request and following him, like a soldier well-worn to orders.

venga conmigo. fiamma had been chewing over his words in her mouth, fascinated by the similarity to her own tongue. it sounded quite similar to "come with me"—and was evidenced by his body language—but was different all the same.

once away from the dugout, she cut her icy eyes upon his scarred face with a newfound intent, looking for answers. sangre was on the mend, but now. . .

perché questo? she asked, her tone caught between curiosity and demand. she meant to ask what had happened, but feared that the more words she added, the less he would understand based on accent. she needed to know;

she needed to know now.

fiamma spends far longer than he analyzing words, dissecting them for their fundamental root.

soto has no time for semantics. he forgets the boy for a moment, bringing fiamma to an alleyway outside of the stone quarter. the shale here leans towards them, as if listening for a secret — and there’s a good one housed underneath their feet. 

water. soto can smell the aquifer faintly, hear the sighing of liquid as it passes through angular sand some several feet beneath. 

but a question lingers, sharp and unwilling to be set down. soto examines those intelligent eyes, but does not understand. why? is she saying why?

why anything? he points to the northeast with a snarl: enemigos. everywhere. 

then, he begins to dig with his good forepaw.

the word did not answer her questions. not fully, anyway. the word in her mother tongue would be nemiche, and this was different enough that she did not comprehend. but the way he spat it out; the look upon his face—

soto dug. she scuffed her own forepaw upon the desert surface, tapered face contorted in question.

perché? she asked again, licking her dry lips.

she's not used to this dry environment, and it was already wearing down upon her. in the lands of di fiamma, mountain springs were plentiful. greenery was omnipresent. and even in the winter, the snow could be savored. . .

perché qui? she tried, leveling a cool blue stare upon soto.

he hauls back shale and dry sand. particulates of clay broken down by decades of compression.  

it’s gritty work. fiamma works alongside him and she says two things; the first earning a flick of his ear and the second his full attention. 

he sets aside a broken sheath of sandstone. listens. beyond the silence between them the desert stretches out in shades of grey and blue; a place long oppressed by intemperance. 

little birdsong. the rustle of a distant lizard. and very, very faintly the swell of water. 

he motions for her to place a paw in the dugout. it is cool; not yet moist but the sediment has changed to something other than sun baked dust. 

and then he continues heaving the larger stones from the hole, grunting with each heavy pull.