Sawtooth Spire sailing through the mist, into the abyss, if you knew, would you sail out to me?

Okay, but who the fuck named a worm Tulip?

Wylla's daughter, evidently, was more of a worm savant than Wylla could ever hope to be. She couldn't stop herself from grimacing. Tulip?! It was a fucking disgusting massive worm. Why not name it Dirtmouth or Slimebelly or Pukeupguts? Something pertaining to worms. Something simple. Logical.

She eyed the alien worm and knew she could never see a tulip the same way again. It flicked its little tongue and Wylla visibly recoiled. If she scowled any deeper, her face would collapse in on itself. Did worms even have tongues?! Or was that another symptom of its gross mutation? Maybe it's a very small bear, she argued, unwittingly sinking to a toddler's level by even justifying that with a response.

Too late to worry about that. The boa slipped from Phaedra's shoulders and made a beeline for her and Wylla backed away with a shriek. Don't touch me! she hissed at the mutant worm, which Phaedra thankfully began to tow outside. If wolves could sweat, Wylla would be drenched. She waited until Phaedra and Tulip the Freakshow had vacated the den entirely before following at a cautious distance with her ears pinned down the sides of her head. I think Dirtbre— I mean, I think Tulip would be happier if you returned him to his hole, don't... don't you think?