Verdigris Ravine if we lose our touch, it won’t mean much

ephraim's narrow muzzle tilted skyward, yellow gaze tracking mindless clouds as they shepherded across a plain of endless blue.

they were a good pair, these two. ephraim's pragmatism often reined in qiao's ancient irritability. it turned out the more revolutions one had around the sun, the less they tolerated those who lived underneath it.

the end would be their use to us. good food, safety, the barter of any goods. qiao looked down upon the rib bone, its ivory edges carved by teeth decades before. the spirits are strange. they say little, and then say too much. one sigil keeps reappearing - a warning, and a fox.