The Floodlands Jackpot

The benefit of living out in the boonies came in the form of silence. There were no rabble rousers, no carnival of soothsayers, skeptics, or skirts; so when a voice did arise from the mire, Mag could find the culprit faster than she could spot a leaping frog or the dervish of a dragonfly.

He looked rough like herself: fur muddied and matted, with scant cream cropping the top line of an angular body. A rogue, perhaps.

Depends. You like the taste of lizard? Mag called back. One step was raised towards her ribs as he had caught her between strides, and as she observed him she planted it down in a pitch of black mud.